


Heart Like a Wheel

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Barebacking, Dean in Panties, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2018, Drag Queen Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gay Dean Winchester, Genderfluid Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Model Dean Winchester, Photographer Castiel, Photography, Pinups, Professor Castiel, Road Trips, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 12:09:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16158698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Down on his luck in college, Dean Winchester finds a flyer taped to his dorm's bulletin board, reading, "Looking for model for long term project. No gender preference, pays in cash." And desperate as he is for cash, Dean can't help but feel self-conscious about the entire thing, even after he applies and meets his soon-to-be employer, Professor Castiel Novak. Only Dean never expected him to be so attractive—and so explicit in his desires, as well.What starts out as a presumably mundane project quickly evolves into Dean's wildest fantasy, full of lace and nudity and the open road. What he never expected to get out of it, though, is a boyfriend, a better view of life as he knows it, and a lesson on how even the ugliest of scars can be beautiful.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A special dedication to Burt Reynolds, who without him posing on a bearskin rug, this fic would not have been inspired. I'll always miss him.
> 
> Note: Dean and Castiel are only eight years apart in age: Dean is 24, Castiel is 32.

 

One of the numerous personal ads pinned to the dorm’s bulletin board calls for models for a nondescript photography project. No extraneous decorations, no paragraph descriptions, just ‘Looking for model for long term project. No gender preference, pays in cash. Call 555-023-8124.’ Two squares have already been torn off, leaving eight still attached.

Unthinking, Dean Winchester takes one and crams it in his jean pocket, and promptly forgets about it.

Or, tries to forget, if the words ‘pays in cash’ weren’t so heavily ingrained into his thoughts. As much as he hates to admit it, he needs the money, just something to get him by through the next few weeks before the last of his grant runs out and he’s left to hustle pool halls for quick cash. There’s only so many times he can go into the same joint with the same shtick without getting kicked out, and he has the sneaking suspicion that the owner is already onto him for his antics.

It’s not like he hasn’t done it before, modeling. Granted, it’s always been for either life drawing or if someone in the photography department needed someone on the fly, but he doesn’t hate it. Objectively, he knows he looks good. Part of him hates himself for it though, the objectification, the eyes on his body and all of his flaws: scars, cigarette burns on his palms, tattoos torn apart in a car crash he can’t exactly remember.

Dean has only two words for himself: _a mess_. All he ever sees in the mirror and all he knows in others’ eyes is the man he could never amount to, the man his father never wanted, the man his mother never got to know. No one knows that, though—they just see him for his beauty and the freckles across his nose, his too-full lips and soulful eyes.

 _If only they knew_ , Dean thinks, clutching the number in his pocket. If only they could see the real him.

He doesn’t sleep that much that night, curled up in his dorm, alone. The heater went out sometime last night, much to his lament, and his roommate took off with most of his bedding, probably trying to stay warm without thinking of Dean’s wellbeing. Spring semester couldn’t end soon enough; it’s only the first week of February, and Dean wants to strangle Michael every time he waltzes into the room smelling of stale pot.

Huddled under his lone blanket and wearing three pairs of socks, Dean looks over the wrinkled number, and thinks. Looks between his phone and the paper, and thinks. It wouldn’t be hard, offering his help. Even if the spot is already taken, he can at least say he tried.

But on the other hand, he can’t imagine standing in front of a camera for so long, with some stranger he’s probably never met before. What if it was some fetish project? he wonders, crumpling the number in his palm. What if he ended up hating the guy after the contract was drawn up? Too many variables play into it, from his own insecurities to the control over his body.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he tells himself aloud, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Two in the morning on a Saturday, with no classes this semester and nothing to do but sit and wait for openings that never come. At some point, he’ll finish his degree—when, is beginning to be the question he can’t even answer.

He needs the cash, and sunlight and human interaction. But mostly the cash.

Covering his head with the blanket, Dean dials the number and places his phone to his ear. At least five times, it rings before someone answers with a bleary, sleep-rough voice. Only briefly does Dean feel sorry for waking them. “Castiel Novak,” the man answers, huffing audibly into the phone. “Who’s calling?”

“This is Dean,” Dean slurs, clearing his throat. His face aches from the chill. “I’m calling about your project thing? I got a number off the board in my dorm.”

Castiel hums for a minute. Dean can hear shuffling on the other end of the line, the soft swish of the sheets Dean wishes he had. He’s probably warm, in his own bed. He probably has a house, not just an apartment or a crappy dorm. “You’re the first person that’s called me about that,” Castiel says, and—that’s good. For Dean, at least; who knows how long the listing has been up there at this point. “It’s after midnight though.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Dean mumbles, belatedly wishing he never called. “I’m sorry, I can call again—”

“No, please.” Castiel grunts. Dean imagines him getting out of bed, face matted in creases from his sheets. If only he had a face to put to Castiel’s voice. “It’s no trouble. I’m supposed to wake up in an hour anyway, I’m teaching a class at six.”

“Rough,” Dean chuckles, earning a laugh from Castiel. “Who’s got you up and at ‘em at that time?”

“Analog photography,” Castiel says. “We’re going to try to shoot the sunrise, weather depending. What’s the forecast for today?”

Dean looks out from under the blanket at the television on the wall and the crack running through the LED. “I don’t know,” he mutters, covering himself again. “Maybe it’ll be sunny.”

“I hope so,” Castiel sighs. “Do you want to meet? Since I’m already awake. I’m at—” and he rattles off the address to a loft building only a few blocks from the University of Kansas campus.

The smart thing would be to tell Castiel no—to offer to visit later in the morning after Castiel’s class, or maybe take him out for lunch. His insomnia-ridden brain thinks otherwise though, and before he can stop himself, Dean blurts, “I can be there in five?”

“Perfect,” Castiel says, softer than before, almost relieved. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Dean,” he repeats, pulling himself from bed. “Dean Winchester.”

-+-

 

What shocks Dean more than seeing Castiel for the first time is the rush of warmth that meets him as soon as Castiel opens the door, thawing out his chilled skin. His teeth chatter, and just how cold it is finally sets in, in the worst way possible—full body spasms. “You’re freezing,” Castiel says, shrugging off his robe and throwing it over Dean’s jacket-clad shoulders. “How long have you been outside?”

“Depends on what you mean,” Dean stammers, nearly biting his tongue.

Castiel ushers him inside with a strong hand, past the bedroom and into the living room. Despite all of Castiel’s furniture shoved into one area, it’s oddly spacious: the kitchen and dining room take up one half of the available space, and a sectional occupies the remaining corner, facing a wall mounted television and an ottoman. In the daytime, the porch overlooks Lawrence; now, the curtains are drawn, leaving Dean with nothing to look at other than the man urging him towards the couch.

“It’s almost twenty outside,” Castiel says, draping a blanket over Dean’s front. “You’ll get frostbite like this.”

“My heater’s been out for days,” Dean says. He pulls the blanket tight around himself, attempting to keep the shivers at bay. “Roommate ran off with my bedding, and I can’t get the supervisor to answer the phone.”

“Jesus,” Castiel mutters under his breath. “Do you like tea?”

Dean doesn’t get a chance to answer before Castiel rushes off to the kitchen, barefooted and hair obscenely poking in every direction. Dean really did wake him up. It’s only after Castiel returns that Dean recognizes him without his glasses. “You’re Professor Novak,” Dean laughs, covering his head with the blanket and drowning himself in darkness. “I’ve seen you around campus. Almost took a class with you once.”

“I think I remember you,” Castiel says, somewhere near the kitchen. Dean can’t really see beyond the faint stove light glowing through the fabric. “Everyone starts to blur together after a while, but… I remember your face specifically. You have beautiful eyes.”

“That’s what everyone says,” Dean sighs. With reluctance, he pulls the blanket away, only to see Castiel standing before him, plain white mugs in both hands. “Feel like that's the only reason I’m good at modeling is my looks. Like all of… this, is supposed to be attractive.”

With steadying fingers, Dean takes one of the cups and holds it in his lap, just to feel the heat bleed through to his thighs. God, he forgot how good it felt to be warm naturally. Castiel must notice, based on his smile. He’s older than he was when Dean last saw him, a few more wrinkles lining his eyes. Strong jaw, an absurdly straight nose, swooping cheekbones a model would kill for—he can’t be older than thirty-five at the most.

“If it’s any consolation, you’re beautiful as you are,” Castiel says. He lifts his hand, warmed from the mug and slightly damp, and thumbs over Dean’s jaw, tilting him up just the slightest. “Have you ever thought about modeling professionally?”

Bowing his head, Dean shrugs, cup to his lips. Green tea, not the most flavorful thing, but it warms him regardless. “I’ve never done it for money, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says. “People ask and I help. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a good quality to have.” Castiel offers a smile. He finally sits and props his feet up on the ottoman, mug held between his—surprisingly thick—thighs. He must run, or bike, or something; either way, Dean can’t stop staring. “That flyer has been up for three weeks, and I haven’t had anyone call. I was beginning to wonder if I’d find someone before my semester ended.”

“You’re not teaching a whole term?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head. “Just for February. I’m going on sabbatical for a year after this, if I can find someone to participate. Are you sure you’re interested?”

“Hell yeah,” Dean says, cracking his best grin. “Unless you’re into like… whips and chains or something, then I’m gonna have to hard pass.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Castiel assures him.

Castiel stands with a grunt and crosses the apartment again, and Dean watches him walk, sweatpants loose around his ankles and hanging off his hips, drawstring doing nothing to hold them up. _Now’s not the time to be ogling a professor_ , Dean reprimands himself. That doesn’t stop him from looking though, or from playing out a quick fantasy or two while Castiel isn’t paying attention.

“I have a packet for you to fill out, since this is an a sanctioned projected by the university,” Castiel says when he returns, a manila folder in hand. Inside, Dean finds a stack of at least twenty sheets of paper, all contract documents and timelines and possible topics to discuss. “I’m looking to do an homage to pinups.”

Dean’s brain skids, breath robbed from his lungs. Pinups—really? “What, like, skimpy clothes, bent-over-hoods pinups?” he says, nearing hysterics. What did he just get himself into?

“Not entirely.” Nimbly, Castiel flips through the pages to the topics page. “There would be some of that, yes, but I’m more looking of you as an extension of the scenery. Think of road trips and cheap motels, diners and roadside oddities. Whether or not you’d be undressed would depends on the mood, but I’d never put you anywhere you’d be uncomfortable.”

“So you’re not gonna put me in my underwear in an IHOP booth?” Dean asks, laughing to mask the fear. What Castiel is suggesting is well beyond Dean’s expertise or understanding, and venturing outside of his comfort zone. “No offense, but I think I’ve seen this in a porno once.”

“You probably have,” Castiel chuckles. “But no. The only times you may be undressed would be when we’re alone. Never in public. I wouldn’t want to offend delicate sensibilities.”

Dean snorts, covering his mouth. As mortifying as it might be, it sounds… interesting, to say the least. Risqué, but interesting. “You said you’re taking a year off,” Dean starts, reaching over to place his mug on the ottoman. “I take it we’re not staying in Kansas?”

Castiel shakes his head. “This will be a mobile project, so I’m planning to drive for as long as I can. Do you have a car, by chance?”

“Got a ’67 Impala,” Dean mentions. A thrill shoots through him at the sight of Castiel’s widening eyes, and his face heats against his will. “Take it you’d want something along those lines?”

“Very much.” Castiel nods, glancing down at the papers again. “I own a newer model Genesis, so I was beginning to think I wouldn’t be able to incorporate vehicles into this project.”

“Can totally use mine, if you want.” Dean shrugs. “I keep her running, so she should be able to take whatever mileage you wanna put on her.”

Castiel nods, eyes wrinkling with his smile. “I’d appreciate that, very much,” he agrees. “I won’t be able to leave until the end of the month, so you have time to prepare.”

Leaning his head back, Dean looks to the ceiling. He could say no and leave Castiel to find another model, if one ever came along, or he could agree and take off wherever the road takes them. The last time Dean had ever left Kansas was when he was a child, and only because his parents thought Disney World would be a fun trip for kids aged five and one. Even after looking at pictures, Dean doesn’t remember anything about the trip, and his brother probably doesn’t remember even going.

Traveling the United States is an entirely different demon—and he can’t wait.

“I’m ready to go whenever,” Dean says, turning to look at Castiel. “Anything that’ll get me out of the dorms is fine with me.”

Smiling loosens Castiel up a bit. “You’re welcome to stay here, if you want,” Castiel offers, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t have another bed, but the couch pulls out. It’s just a suggestion, but… it’s warmer here, and there’s a kitchen, if you’re hungry.”

Food—when was the last time he ate anything other than ramen and granola bars? As if on cue, his stomach growls painfully, catching Castiel’s attention. “I hope you’re ready for a culinary experience, then,” Dean laughs, weary. “I took a cooking class one year and knocked my professor’s socks off.”

Castiel chuckles, ducking his head. “I’m looking forward to it.”

-+-

February comes and goes without much fanfare, at least not in Dean’s eyes. He moves his few belongings into Castiel’s living room via a well-worn suitcase and sleeps on the pull-out mattress at night, and picks up odd jobs around town, just something to bring in enough money to pay for gas. Apparently, Castiel has received some sort of grant that pays off most of their hotel expenses and meals, with enough left over to buy whatever they wanted along the way.

Still, Dean’s pride manages to get the better of him most of the time; the least he can do is chip in what little money he has that isn’t from a scholarship or Pell. Life modeling gives him a few bills after each session, and working at his friend’s auto shop brings in enough for a few weeks’ worth of stops.

All of it goes straight into Dean’s cash box, currently stowed in the bottom of his suitcase and hidden from Castiel’s view. Not that Castiel would steal from him, but it’s more of a habit than anything. Years spent hiding whatever money he had from his father, just to feed himself in the event John drank himself to sleep again. Honestly, he’s better off here than at home. Hopefully, his brother is safe in California.

In his free time, Dean cooks. Nothing fancy unless he finds something online, but Castiel appreciates it all the same, and never once has he complained about anything Dean makes. “I’ll miss this when we travel,” Castiel even says one night, a forkful Dean’s painstakingly crafted meatloaf in his mouth. “Maybe I should book kitchenettes.”

Dean laughs around his food. “As long as it’s got nice beds, I’m good.”

Castiel’s last class is February twenty-eighth—the same afternoon he comes to Dean with a request Dean initially wants to deny. “I need to see you in your underwear,” Castiel says, face neutral. The heat of his hand on Dean’s wrist says otherwise, thumb rubbing the fragile underside.

Dean flushes all the way to his chest, his face burning. Naked, basically—Dean is his model, after all. He signed the paperwork and everything, even acknowledging that if he drops out at any time, he won’t owe Castiel anything, but Castiel won’t pay him the few grand allotted to Dean for his time.

The money is nice—but the company is nicer. And Castiel has to know what he’s working with. “I feel like a cheap whore,” Dean admits, looking down to his threadbare t-shirt. Ashamed doesn’t cover it; he’s mortified, knowing that what Castiel sees might turn him off entirely. “I’m not… I’m not perfect,” he says. “I’ve been through some shit—”

“Dean.” Castiel stops him with a hand to Dean’s shoulder, rubbing gently. “Whatever happened, your body is your own. I won’t turn you away because of any imperfections you may have.”

Slowly, Dean nods, and reaches for his shirt.

A sudden chill creeps up his spine by the time he’s finished undressing, clothing cast onto the pullout bed. From Castiel’s scrutiny, from the cold air seeping in through the open windows—he doesn’t know. Regardless, Dean knows what Castiel sees there: the scarred portion of his ribs and the remains of a tattoo, surgery scars around one knee leading halfway down his calf, slices on his wrists he still can’t admit to himself that he inflicted. He’s a mess, every inch of him.

Yet, Castiel regards him with compassion, skirting his hand down Dean’s arm, down his flank, to rest over his hip. Too intimate—too real. “I never expected you to be a porcelain doll,” Castiel tells him. He thumbs over a scar, feeling the raised indentation. “Where did you get these?”

Dean sighs. Scrubs his face, just to keep from having to look at Castiel. “Another day,” he huffs, pulling his arms around himself. “Not exactly dinner conversation.”

Castiel nods and pulls his hand away. “Fair enough,” he says, no malice intended. “Are you self-conscious about any of your scars at all?”

Briefly, Dean glances down to his leg, then up to his side, considering between the two. The coloration on his calf has faded over the last few years, enough to where he can wear shorts in the summer when absolutely necessary without attracting attention. His torso, though, is another question entirely—and it’s exactly where Castiel wants to focus his attention. “Guess I can’t really say no to taking my shirt off,” Dean mutters.

“The scars are part of you,” Castiel soothes. It doesn’t help Dean feel any better, but at least he’s trying. “You’re unique.”

“Unique.” Dean shakes his head. “You think anyone’d be interested in looking at that, some guy with botched tattoos?” Castiel doesn’t answer that, jaw set in a way that unsettles Dean’s stomach. Great—just what he wants to do, piss off the guy he’s about to share a car with. “Look, just… I’m not used to being… looked at like that. What I do, it’s just to help people. I’m not exactly eye candy.”

“Some would disagree,” Castiel says, noncommittal. Too noncommittal, actually, if the light flush to Castiel’s cheeks is anything to go by. “It doesn’t matter what people think of you. All that matters is that you’re confident in yourself. Your confidence is what draws people to you and keeps their interest. You have that charisma, you’re just too shy to show that part of yourself.”

 _Deep_. Dean turns, clenching the top of the couch just to keep himself steady. How does Castiel know? And how can he say it with such confidence? Embarrassment paints him red, down his back and up to the tips of his ears. “Because whenever I try,” he starts, slow, testing the waters, “it always gets thrown back in my face.”

Castiel touches him, a hand placed square between his shoulder blades; Dean hates how much it calms him, just from being touched. “I won’t abuse your trust,” Castiel promises. “I don’t want you to be something you’re not. You’re safe with me.”

“Am I?” Dean stands up straighter, hands tucked underneath his arms. As much as he wants to trust Castiel—really trust him, beyond professionalism and contracts—it’s hard. Always has been hard, ever since he was a child. What makes Castiel any different, anyway? Slowly, he faces Castiel and leans back against the couch, looking down to his toes. “Kinda late to be gettin’ cold feet, but… I’m just freaked out, okay? I mean, you’re twenty years older than me or something—”

“I’m only thirty-two,” Castiel amends.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Eight years, then.”

“Look.” Castiel steps closer, bare feet just barely touching Dean’s. “I’m not trying to take advantage of you, and I never intend to. You’re allowed to tell me if you have suggestions or if you don’t want to do something. All I want is for you to be comfortable.”

Slowly, Dean lets out a breath. Objectively, he knows this. Never in the last month has Castiel made Dean feel unwelcome, only treating Dean with the utmost kindness. Which is more than Dean can say about any roommate he’s ever had, brother aside. And if he had to really think about it, he could even begin to call Castiel a friend.

Castiel wouldn’t take advantage of him. At least, Dean hopes so.

“I know,” Dean eventually says. “I know, I know. It’s all new, y’know? I’ve hardly ever left Kansas before, and now I’m supposed to get in a car tomorrow and get naked on a whim. This isn’t weird for you?”

At that, Castiel chuckles and palms the back of his neck. “I’ve never done it before, either. All of my previous projects have involved landscapes or animals, never people. I guess you could say making it up as we go?”

Dean snorts. “Long as I’m not going into this alone, then. Right?”

“Of course,” Castiel offers with a shy smile. “Sleep well. We’ll leave as soon as the sun comes up.”

And with that, Castiel leaves him with a parting nod, disappearing behind his bedroom door down the hall. Never once has Dean thrown his clothes back on so fast in his life.

-+-

_Boise City, Oklahoma  
            Longhorn Motel_

 

Dean stares at the panties laid out on the floral bedspread, halfway torn between leaving Castiel and driving eight hours back to Lawrence, and shoving his pants off to try them on. Not that he hasn’t done this before—there’s a sordid few years of his life he’d love to forget—but now, it feels especially dangerous, knowing he’s about to go out in public like this. Even if it’s just the truck stop a few hundred feet away, he’ll be in close enough proximity to the type of men he absolutely loathes.

“You’ll just need to unzip at the most,” Castiel assures him, busying himself with choosing from the multitude of lenses spread out on his mattress. He chooses a portrait lens and snaps it onto his Nikon, turning the camera on. “We’re not going close to any of the trucks, so we should be private enough.”

“Easy for you to say,” Dean huffs. Picking up the thin strip of lace, he holds it up to the light, rubbing the material between two fingers. Embarrassing—erotically embarrassing. At least with his back turned, Castiel can’t see him blush. “You’re not the one taking your shirt off.”

“I can if you want,” Castiel offers. Dean balks and fumbles with the lace, promptly crumpling it in his fist. Just what he needs to see, his incredibly attractive professor-slash-employer half-naked. “Would it help you, if I were?”

 _No_ , Dean wants to say. _No, that’d only make it worse_. Frantic, Dean blurts out, “Whatever, it’s your project,” and shuts himself in the bathroom before he has a chance to regret it.

Here, Dean can bask in solitude, his only company the overhead fan and the dripping faucet. Castiel is still close, he knows, but for now, Dean can’t see him. For one blissful second, he doesn’t have to think about Castiel’s incessant humming or his increasingly strange music taste. The ambient station outside of Dodge City left him with a raging need to stop the car and run into a cornfield just to make the ringing stop in his head. How could anyone listen to nothing and say that they liked it?

 _This is just day one_ , Dean thinks, and Castiel is already driving him mad, in every way possible.

Shucking off his jeans takes less effort than he would’ve thought given his nerves; sliding the panties on, though, is another feat. It’s been months since he’s tried anything on that isn’t boxer briefs, and even when he did, they never fit right, too snug in places and too exposing in others. These fit, however—perfectly, in fact, to the point where Dean can’t even see the outline of his bulge, held perfectly in place. Turning, he admires his ass in the mirror, the pink lace framing him beautifully while still managing to be tame, even elegant.

Never let it be said that Castiel doesn’t have good taste. “How’d you find my size?” Dean asks, swinging the door open and leaving his jeans on the bathroom floor. He needs a different pair, anyway, one of his holier ones that sit a little too tight around his thighs.

On the bed, Castiel holds the viewfinder close to his eye, snapping a quick test shot of Dean in just his shirt and underwear. Belatedly, he hopes the scant lighting in the room mutes his blush. “I checked when I was doing laundry one day,” Castiel says, which—fair enough. At least Castiel didn’t go snooping through his suitcase. “Have you always been so thin?”

Dean can’t help but snort, hiding his face behind his hands. “I gained ten pounds since I started living with you,” he says. “I did the opposite of the freshman fifteen for the last two years.”

“The cafeteria always gave me indigestion,” Castiel says, shaking his head. “I don’t blame you.”

The jeans Dean finds have holes ripped in both knees from mid-thigh to mid-calf, with additional rips closer to his hips. Somehow, they still fit despite his most recent weight gain, his legs—and the rest of him—looking less waifish and more filled into. Healthy, even. Additionally, he pulls a set of fishnet stockings from his bag, given to him by Castiel before they left that morning, and looks them over, attempting to untangle the legs. “I apologize if they’re too feminine,” Castiel adds, snapping another photo. Candids; hopefully these won’t be in the portfolio. “I couldn't find any in men’s sizes.”

“It’s fine.” Dean waves him off.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, he rolls up one of the set and slides it on, following with the other. They ride up far enough for the hem to disappear under his jeans without the aid of a garter to keep them in place. Castiel has some, Dean knows; he has other bits of lingerie too, some of which Dean is still too mortified to think about, especially since he’ll be wearing them at some point.

“You sure you don’t want me in makeup or anything?” Dean asks halfway through lacing up his boots, carefully eyeing Castiel where he now stands, camera slung over his shoulder. “I got a whole set. Primer, shadow, you name it.”

Castiel regards him in curiosity, but doesn’t pry; for once, Dean is glad he doesn’t have to explain himself. “Maybe at a later date,” Castiel says. “Right now, I’d like to test how you look in low light. Are you ready?”

Dean nods, albeit a bit too forced. Nervous, yes; ready, not so much. Still, he shrugs off his shirt and follows Castiel outside. This time of year, there aren’t many truckers parked in the lot, but there’s still enough to make Dean feel uneasy, dressed as he is. He sticks as closely to Castiel’s side as he can, arms wrapped around his torso in a failing attempt at modesty.

His only saving grace, that this town isn’t exactly populated to begin with. Castiel backs him up against the wall of the truck stop, bodily positioning Dean where he wants him. “Do you smoke?” Castiel asks, tipping Dean’s head up with one finger.

Dean shakes his head. “Not much. Maybe once in a while.”

“Can you fake it?” And Castiel hands a worn out Zippo and a pack of Marlboros over to him. “As a prop.”

Right. He’s here to model, after all; might as well work with what he’s given.

What Castiel sees in him, after a few minutes of cycling through shutter speeds and ISOs, Dean has no clue. He must like the glow of the neon, because Castiel keeps to Dean’s right, the lens always focused on the pinks and oranges cast across his body and onto the asphalt. Idly, Dean smokes and ignores the click and of the camera, blowing smoke into the air in intricate patterns. Several times, he stops long enough to tap out the ash onto the pavement.

“Undo your fly,” Castiel suggests. In the heat of the moment, Dean can’t help but obey.

How he ends up with his jeans open and his hand half-shoved in his pants, Dean doesn’t know, but Castiel praises him for his cooperation. Not with whistles and catcalls, but with actual words, genuine and rich to Dean’s ears. “You’re stunning,” Castiel mentions. Dean can see him smiling behind the camera. “That’s it, look at me.”

Dean doesn’t smile—but given the chance, he would, just from seeing how happy Castiel is. Eventually, after another few photos and Dean angling his head at just the right angle, Castiel lowers the viewfinder and finally shuts off the Nikon. “Jesus Christ, I’m freezing,” Dean finally exhales, shoving off the wall and rubbing his hands together. Now, he laughs with all his heart, and Castiel joins in, pushing his glasses up onto his nose. “You get anything good?”

“I’m rather fond of these,” Castiel says with mirth. “I’ll show you in the room?”

“Yes, please,” Dean grins. “My nipples are about to break off if I stand out here any longer.”

Castiel just chuckles; if Dean knew any better, he could swear he sees Castiel flush. “Then let’s go.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

To Castiel, Dean Winchester is a complete enigma.

On the surface, Dean has enough charisma to charm even the most standoffish of individuals. Something deeper resides in him, though, something Castiel can’t even begin to fathom, no matter how often Dean hints at it or lets his darkest secrets slip. And desperately, Castiel wants to know him better, into the murky depths of his mind.

Needless to say, with Dean around, Castiel can’t sleep. Instead, he watches Dean’s eyelids flutter in the midst of a dream, the sunlight beginning to pour in through their motel window. He could pull out his camera now, while Dean isn’t looking, but that would be violating Dean’s privacy, even more so than he’s already done, just by asking Dean to pose in next to nothing for the sake of his portfolio. Dean has every right to deny him, as well, but for some reason, he stayed. And not just for the money either. He’s staying, sleeping in the bed next to him, drooling into the pillow with the covers drawn up to his neck.

 _I’m almost ten years older than him_ , Castiel thinks, blinking sleep from his eyes. Sitting up, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, swiping the screen open. Fifteen new emails from students overnight, all asking questions about their final portfolio grades. Somehow, his teaching duties never fail to escape him, even during his time off.

His sister Anna texts him around eight, only a few minutes after the sun finishes rising. No substance to it, just a picture of her Pekingese treeing a raccoon in his backyard. “You’re loud when you type,” Dean complains, bleary, startling Castiel. Still shirtless, and still wearing the panties Castiel lent him, every bit of the sin Castiel has come to know.

God, he’s pretty—and Castiel has the beginnings of a suspicion that Dean wouldn’t like being called that. Dean is all plush lips and freckles, with too many scars to count; auburn hair sticks to his head as he sits up, in desperate need of a barber or a good pair of clippers. Most entrancing of all, are the green eyes, speckled in gold and shining in any light, that stare back at Castiel. He’s almost ethereal, too perfect to touch—and it only makes Castiel want him more.

 _This was a horrible idea_ , Castiel thinks, knuckles white where they grip his phone.

“I thought you’d sleep in later,” Castiel says, eventually setting the device back onto the table. His sister can wait another few minutes. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Dean says. He flops back into the mattress without finesse, arms splayed to either side and chest bared to the chilled air of the room.

Castiel pointedly doesn’t look at his nipples, or the rest of him for that matter. Pulling himself out of bed, he fumbles for his sweatpants, pulling them on before Dean can make some quip about his choice in underwear. “There’s a diner a few miles up the road,” Castiel adds, cinching the drawstring tight around his waist. “I was thinking we’d make our way to Colorado today.”

“Sounds fun,” Dean hums, palming his eyes. “Got any idea what you wanna do next?”

That was the question—what next? Sure, Castiel has an itinerary, but that doesn't mean he has to follow it to the letter. It’s more of a guideline, really; a guideline that leads to fantasies he should have no right to entertain.

But Dean is more than willing, and he’s… fun. Certainly more entertaining than any of Castiel’s colleagues, and brighter than any student he’s ever had. He sings along with the radio and smiles every chance he can get, and weaves stories Castiel can’t hope but believe are true. Things about his brother and his parents, friends and distant relatives. Happier times, surely; the depth of Dean’s despair, though, is a subject Dean refuses to touch, at least not now. If they’ll ever get to that point, Castiel doesn’t know. Isn’t in much of a hurry to find out either, if things progress like they are. Easy, carefree.

It shouldn’t be as melancholic as it is.

“I was thinking we head into Colorado,” Castiel suggests, stretching his arms above his head. His spine pops, and Dean laughs, soft. “It’s mountainous, but I figured you’d like the drive.”

“Kinda starting to like this traveling thing,” Dean says, idly scratching a spot on his chest. “Most I’ve done is go out west, but that was only when I couldn’t stand to sit around anymore. I started going to Dodge City every few weeks, did the whole cowboy thing for a few days, then drove back. Chaps are no joke, man.”

Castiel chuckles. What Dean must look like in western-wear—a thought for another time. “Do you mind if I…?” Inwardly, he hopes Dean catches on; Castiel never put his camera away last night, too caught up in conversation to do anything other than pass out around three in the morning.

Dean just grins and lifts his arms, resting them atop the pillow as delicately as he can. The sun reflects off his cheeks and bathes his chest in deep golds and oranges, diffused through the sheer curtains; here, sleep-washed and unabashed in his near-nudity, he’s even more beautiful than the first day Castiel met him. If only Castiel could have him like this every day.

“You really are somethin’, Cas,” Dean says, a smile on his lips.

Castiel almost drops his camera halfway to his eye.

-+-

_Raton, New Mexico_

“We’ve been stuck in a car for going on—” Dean stops chewing long enough to count the hours in his head while Castiel watches him. “What, nine hours now? Ten? And I’ve been living at your house for longer than that.”

“You’re saying you don’t know me,” Castiel ventures. Dean nods and spears his fry into a pile of ketchup. One quality that Castiel has noticed in him—Dean eats like a man dying of starvation, barely coming up for air until he’s finished. Leaning back, Castiel rests an arm atop the bench, hand hanging loosely over the edge. “What would you like to know?”

“Starters,” and Dean points a fry at him. “You’re on sabbatical, but you’re teaching a photography class.”

“I also teach a graduate course on archival practices,” Castiel says. “You can understand why I took a vacation.”

Dean laughs, pushing back in his seat. “So’s that what you’re calling it, a vacation?”

It’s almost noon, according to Castiel’s watch. Breakfast may as well be lunch now, based on the amount of food they ordered, but that doesn’t stop either of them—mainly Dean—from plowing through chicken fried steak and more pancakes than either of them can stomach.

It does feel simple, really. But Castiel has never been one to keep the silence going for too long. “I grew up in California,” he begins and moves to pick up his knife and fork again, slicing into the rest of his steak. “Glendale, actually. My parents were Hollywood socialites in the sixties and seventies, and owned enough property to play the part. I’m one of seven children.”

Dean gapes, eyes wide. “Wow. How many of each?”

“Surprisingly, I was the only boy,” Castiel adds. “My sisters used to try out their makeup skills on me when they were teenagers.”

“You look like you’d look good in silver tones,” Dean suggests, wiggling his brows.

Castiel just smiles, ducking his head. “That’s what they discovered too. My parents sold the land after I got my Masters, and they’re living in Sacramento now. They claimed they needed a change of scenery, though I suspect they’re planning on opening a dispensary as soon as the laws change.”

Dean snorts. His shoes brush against Castiel’s under the table. When nothing stops him, not Dean himself or the waitress returning to fill their drink, Castiel toes Dean’s ankle and earns a soft grin in return. Warmth spreads through Castiel’s chest at the sight.

“You always wanna go into teaching?” Dean asks, chasing a fry in the last of his gravy. “Parents sound like they were rolling in cash.”

“They were for a while,” Castiel shrugs. “All of my sisters went into teaching. Hannah has her own cooking show, though.”

“Hannah Novak is your sister?” Dean asks, amazed. “Hannah’s Homestyle?”

Castiel laughs. “The very same. She’s the only outlier, though, and I always wanted to educate people. But I’ve been teaching more photography lately. I’m thinking about turning this into a book.”

Dean mulls that over for a minute, cradling his coffee mug between both hands. Meanwhile, Castiel runs his shoe underneath the leg of Dean’s jeans, just barely, just to feel Dean press back into him. Gentle, almost ghostlike, but Castiel swears he can see Dean blush. “You’d really wanna put my face in a book?” Dean questions in disbelief. “You really think I’m good enough for that?”

“I do,” Castiel agrees. Between them, Castiel places his hand in the middle of the table, palm raised. “I’ve yet to see anything unworthy about you.”

“Even if I had secrets?” At that, Castiel blinks, breath caught in his throat. Somehow, Dean manages to make himself smaller, crowding into himself and pulling his leg away from Castiel’s grasp. “Stuff I haven’t ever told anyone. Stuff I’m… I’m not ashamed of it, but it’s not a thing… guys do.”

“Is this about the makeup?” Castiel asks—and Dean nods.

Dean sighs, a hand over his eyes. “I do drag sometimes. I go by Jacey Church. My friends loan me clothes and wigs but I do my own…” He stops to gesture at his face. From his pocket, he pulls out his phone and brings up a series of pictures, all of Dean dressed in tight crop tops and ripped jeans and six-inch heels with hair that would make a beauty queen proud. Castiel stares, transfixed, and swipes through the pictures of Dean on stage with a microphone in his gloved hands, eyes made up in blacks and greens and cheeks contoured dramatically. “It’s ugly, I know.”

Astonished, Castiel shakes his head. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful,” he amends. Dean only flushes further, hands in his lap. “You thought I’d be ashamed?”

“My dad hasn’t talked to me since he found out,” Dean admits. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes drawn to the window and the cars parked in the lot outside. “I had to wear makeup for a few weeks, and I haven’t been back home since. My folks have been divorced since me and my brother were kids, but I can bet my ass he called mom just to tell her how bad of a son I am.”

Briefly, Castiel surveys the restaurant before he reaches over to take one of Dean’s hands, covering it with his own atop the table. And Dean lets him, his skin cold and clammy in Castiel’s grasp. “You’re not a bad son,” Castiel assures him. “You’re just doing something you love.”

“I know,” Dean exhales, shaky around the edges. “I know, and mom supports me, but… I feel like she’s the only one who does.”

Threading his fingers between Dean’s is easy—almost too easy, considering where they are. This isn’t the type of conversation to have in public, or in the daylight, but here, Dean bares his soul, flaws and all, and Castiel can’t help but accept all of him. “You already know there’s nothing you could do to sway me,” Castiel says, and Dean laughs a bit, hollow as it may be. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Sorry I ruined lunch,” Dean says, low.

Castiel just tightens his grip, warming with how Dean holds on. “You didn’t ruin anything. I’m glad you told me. It helps me… understand you, in a way.”

“Am I that dense?” Dean laughs.

“You’re mysterious,” Castiel says. Dean just laughs harder, the corners of his eyes beginning to wrinkle. “Can I tell you something as well?”

Dean leans over the tabletop, his free arm braced against the vinyl tabletop. “Anything, man.”

 _I’d like to see you naked_ , his mind supplies. _I’d like to see you bent over the hood of your car wearing nothing but a smile_. “I’m really starting to like you.”

Impossibly, Dean smiles even wider. “Think I like you too, Cas.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Montrose, Colorado  
            The Next Morning_

Off in a valley, farther off the main roads than Dean has ever been, sits an abandoned scrapyard, packed from corner to corner with rusting automobiles, both recently dumped and long-since deserted. Dean parks outside of the chain-link fence and shuts off the engine, his eyes on the massive lot and the muddy grass beneath the tires. Recent snowmelts haven’t been kind to this part of the country or to Dean’s car, snow and dirt coating the door and quarter panels all the way to the windows. “I’m gonna need to wash her after this, aren’t I?” Dean asks, turning to Castiel.

Reaching over the front bench, Castiel grabs his camera bag from the rear footwell, tugging it into his lap. “That might work out to our advantage,” Castiel says, oddly excited. “Do you think this is private enough?”

Dean looks out the window at the cloudless sky and the stacked cars. This is as far out of the city as they can get, down an unused dirt road littered with several years’ worth of debris. Far enough away for Dean to finally let his guard down and let Castiel do what he wants with him—really wants, not just attempting to do his job while both of them hide in the shadows.

Here, Dean can change clothes at a whim—or, rather change out of them, based on Castiel’s suggestions for the day. Today, he wears nothing but a frilly lace jockstrap and a well-worn Trans Am t-shirt, one of Dean’s own. Where Castiel is hoarding all of these pairs of underwear, Dean doesn't know; considering how well they fit him, though, he’s willing to let it slide. Maybe just for Castiel.

Skittish as Dean may be normally, Castiel has helped to calm him, in ways Dean never thought he needed to be. There’s no objectification in Castiel’s eyes, no malice or judgment—all Dean sees every morning when he wakes up and every evening before he falls asleep is Castiel’s unbridled joy, just from being in the same room as him. No one in Dean’s life—not his family, not his friends, not even his one boyfriend back in high school—has ever looked at him like this, with so much admiration, with… lust.

Dean swallows, throat clicking. Desire, he understands—being desired, though, has always been strange.

Castiel, gratefully, doesn't watch as Dean changes in the backseat, his attention more focused on unlocking the padlock currently rusted to the facility’s gate. If it weren’t for Castiel’s suggestion, Dean would have preferred to wear black, even red, but white works as well. It shows off the freckles dotting his thighs and the subtle curve of his cock, trapped beneath thick lace and satin. His shirt does nothing to cover his nudity, either, not that Castiel seems to mind.

Here, he might as well be naked, and for the first time in his life, he can’t bring himself to be ashamed. Being with Castiel is easy like that. _It’s too good to be true_ , Dean thinks, raking the dust from his hair. _What’re the chances a guy like him’ll ever like me like that_?

“You wouldn’t happen to have a hammer, would you?” Castiel calls out before Dean has a chance to make it far from the car. “The lock’s too rusted.”

“We could always climb it,” Dean says, only half a suggestion. Castiel’s eyes grow wide, however, like he’s actually considering it. “No, no, I’m kidding—”

Castiel breaks into laughter before Dean can get in another word, bent over in near-hysterics; only then does Dean join in, head bowed. “Maybe if you had pants on,” Castiel reassures him. “I wouldn’t want you to rip anything on barbed wire.”

Dean snorts and pulls his toolbox forward from the rear of the trunk. “I’d rather not have my dick fall off from tetanus, if that’s okay.”

“Fair enough,” Castiel chuckles.

Dean meets Castiel at the gate with a hammer and an ice pick. To his relief, the contraption falls off with one strike, sending the scrap into the grass with a wet thud. Easy enough. Hopefully navigating through the rusted heaps will be even easier.

“The Impala’s my first car ever,” Dean says as they step through the gate, traipsing through the drying mud down an unkempt path, layers upon layers of stacked cars on each side. Whether or not Castiel is listening, Dean doesn’t care; out of everything, his one passion in life has always been cars, no matter the age or state of disrepair. “Someone abandoned her on the side of the road years before I ever picked her up. Every day in high school, I’d pass it on the bus, and I’d think, man, if only I could do something with her, y’know?”

Faintly, Dean can hear the shutter of Castiel’s camera, going off intermittently. Maybe he should take his shoes off for this. “I got my friend to tow her the day after graduation,” he continues, testing the door of a Nova sitting underneath two smashed Pontiacs, successfully jimmying it open. Just barely, Castiel manages to squeeze by behind Dean without too much contact.

Dean can barely string words together when Castiel climbs into the front seat after him. “Against the door,” Castiel instructs. He orients Dean’s legs the way he wants them, one stretched lengthwise across the bench seat and the other hanging off into the footwell, giving a clear shot of his semi to the camera. Cradling Dean’s wrist, Castiel lays his arm atop the seat, the other draped across his thigh. “Loosen your shoulders, you’re tensing.”

“Bossy,” Dean jeers, but ultimately complies.

He ends up with his head tilted back against the dirtied window, with Castiel crouched over him. Castiel places a knee between Dean’s legs and his hand on the dashboard, camera snapping away. Inwardly, Dean knows what he sees: the curve of his throat and strong jaw, full lips parted just the slightest with his tongue peeking through, his shirt beginning to slouch off to one side and revealing his collarbones. Proximity draws sweat to the surface, further exacerbated by Castiel’s warm breath, deep and labored, against his skin. Dean palms his inner thigh, too far from his hardening dick to offer any relief, but it helps to stave the sudden wave of want coursing through him.

And if Dean knows anything from Castiel’s gaze, Castiel feels it too.

Maybe that’s what makes Castiel rear back, the tension snapping hard enough to leave Dean both winded and with the desire to pop open the passenger door and take off. “I feel we’ve…” Castiel begins, only to trail off at the end. “Are we moving too fast?”

“Oh thank God,” Dean gasps, head thunking against the window. Never before has one sentence felt like such a relief. Instinctively, he tugs his shirt down over his crotch, just in time for Castiel to back away and sit behind the steering wheel. “I think we’ve been working too hard, y’know? Between the driving and the motels and… this,” he stops to wave his hand at himself, “I was starting to think…”

“That we might become intimate?” Castiel finishes for him, and—yes, exactly that. That one of these days, Dean might bend himself over and let Castiel ravage him, wearing nothing but lace and thin fabric in the middle of a cornfield somewhere. Not that he would mind, but the point still stands.

But they can’t do this now. Not until they set some kind of limits. This is a job, Castiel is his boss, and Dean is just a model. “Nothing wrong with us getting buddy buddy,” Dean amends, pulling his legs up against his chest. “But… not now, alright? I mean, you’re fuckin’ hot and all—”

“As are you,” Castiel interrupts.

Dean turns his head, shame-faced. “But we’re going too fast. Maybe we just gotta… dial it back a bit? Before we do something we both regret.”

Castiel slumps into his seat. “I’ll be honest,” he sighs, setting his camera between them, “I’ve never felt this level of… lust before. I apologize if I was too forward—”

“You’re fine, really,” Dean assures him. Whether or not that’s the whole truth, he doesn’t know. Granted, this is one of his healthier relationships, not fueled solely by animalistic passion and the need to get into someone else’s pants. Working with Castiel is easy, but too intense to be safe. “Maybe we try this.” Sitting up, Dean faces Castiel with his hands in his lap. “We do this the right way. Drive a day, stay in town for a week or so, and we can shoot whenever it feels right, not every chance we get. Capiche?”

“I capiche,” Castiel says, smiling just the slightest. “Should we come back tomorrow? When we’re… more level-headed.”

Dean could tell him yes. Could tell Castiel that they’d be better off setting out a plan and sticking to it, rather than flying by the seat of their proverbial pants. What comes out instead is, “We’re already here, we could just finish?”

Castiel chuckles softly at that, shaking his head. “Exterior only, then. I promise I’ll keep a respectable distance.”

“Good.” Dean swallows, nodding along. Thankfully, his erection has flagged in the interval. Equally respectable—now Castiel has to keep up his end of the agreement. “God, I’m gonna need a bath in sanitizer by the time we’re done.”

-+-

Waking up has its own challenges, lately, especially given the long hours Dean has been driving and just how truly god awful each and every mattress is in the various motels they stop at. This morning, Dean can barely pull his tired bones out of bed and into the shower, where spectacularly lukewarm water awaits him. If he can bring himself to move.

Turning his head towards the light streaming through the curtains, Dean spots Castiel sitting against the headboard of the other bed, laptop resting atop the sheets over his waist and camera plugged into the USB port. “Why do I smell blood,” Dean whines, eventually rolling onto his back to stare at the watermarked ceiling.

Castiel only grunts in reply, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I think there’s mold somewhere,” he says eventually, legs shifting and straightening underneath the covers. “Are you well enough to travel to Flagstaff today?”

“Please tell me it’s not another ten hour day,” Dean complains, an arm over his eyes.

“I could always drive, if you’re tired,” Castiel suggests, lips curled up just the slightest.

Dean hurls a pillow at him, missing spectacularly and bouncing off the air conditioner unit. “My car,” he huffs, not unkindly, but still—no one other than him has ever driven the Impala, and letting Castiel behind the wheel feels like sacrilege. “When we’re out of the mountains, I’ll think about it. Think you’re capable of that kinda horsepower?”

Castiel grins, stretching his arms above his head; as his shirt rides up, Dean marvels at the sliver of skin exposed, tanned and lightly freckled with just the slightest bit of hair sinking beneath his waistband. God, what he must look like shirtless. Dean quickly shakes the thought off and flips over to shove his face into the musty mattress. “I think you’re underestimating my expertise with cars,” Castiel says. “One of my sisters raced in the K&N series for a while. I was a test driver for her team a few years ago.”

If Dean didn’t have an inappropriate erection before, he sure does now. “Let me guess,” he starts, leaning up enough to lift his torso off the bed, “Anna Novak is your sister too?” Castiel nods, and Dean lets himself fall back onto the mattress. “How many celebrities are in your family, man?”

“Just the two.” Castiel shrugs. “Racing has always been interesting to me. The speed and the feel of the wheel in your hands, maneuvering an incredibly aerodynamic vehicle through sharp turns with the weight of gravity bearing down on your every move, tearing past the crowd, it’s… exhilarating.”

So is Dean’s sudden hard-on, but he’s not bragging. “Yeah, well, as long as you can turn right, then we’re good.” At that, Castiel laughs, and Dean smothers his smile in the sheets. At least someone thinks he’s funny.

“Would you like to see what we’ve done so far?” Castiel asks in the lull, just as Dean is beginning to nod off again. If only he could sleep; maybe in Flagstaff, they can get a better motel. Or even a hotel, with actual amenities and a continental breakfast and blankets that don't smell like mothballs. “I uploaded everything so I can pick and choose between them.”

Dean gives himself another minute—mostly to compose his morning libido—before he pulls himself out of bed, wearing nothing but his boxer briefs and a threadbare shirt. Castiel moves the pillows around before Dean sits next to him, legs crossed and shoulder pressed against Castiel’s. Castiel brings up two separate windows—one for the scrap yard and for that shady truck stop back in Oklahoma—and begins with the truck stop.

Most of the images were taken during their downtime, featuring Dean readying himself for hopefully the final product. The reds and yellows of the neon glimmer off of his skin, casting Dean in a hue he’s never quite seen before, especially on himself. Even dressed in next to nothing, without an ounce of makeup on his face and his hair barely even gelled, he looks… immaculate, with Castiel’s choice of lighting and depth and just how he framed Dean’s face in each and every one.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters under his breath, carding a hand through his hair. “Who’d you sell your soul to, man?”

“I still have a soul,” Castiel jests. He nudges Dean playfully, adding, “A far as I know, anyway.”

Dean can’t help but snort, hiding his face in Castiel’s shoulder in embarrassment, both his own and Castiel’s, but neither of which he plans to admit. “They’re good though,” he says, pulling away to admire the next set Castiel flips through.

The scrapyard feels like a distant memory at this point, fraught with mud and near-misses. Still, it sticks heavy in his mind, and the photographs only cement that in. His blush deepens; does he really have that many freckles? “This is so surreal,” Dean sighs. Covering his mouth, he glances over at Castiel. Seeing all this skin—his own skin—on display like this, he finds he can barely speak. “You really think this is… good?”

“You’re perfect,” Castiel assures him. Gently, he palms over Dean’s knee, yesterday’s heat replaced with familiar comfort and assurance. “You’ve given me more than I could’ve hoped for, Dean. I want you to know that.” Castiel stops to meet Dean’s eye, the sun casting him in an ethereal glow. “If anyone ever tells you you’re not, they’re lying.”

Red-faced, Dean hangs his head, both hands over the back of his neck. Dean is attractive, yes; objectively, he knows that, because he’s been told it damn near every day of his life by men and women. His life is studded with unwanted advances and very little sincerity. But if Castiel is telling the truth, then what does it mean for him?

“It’s just… hard, sometimes,” Dean mutters, shaking his head. “It’s not like you’re calling me pretty or anything, but I still can’t believe it. I’m…”

Castiel squeezes Dean’s knee, just enough to earn his attention once again. “You don’t have to believe it,” Castiel says, soft. “Our bodies are strange, and they don’t always make sense to others, and certainly not to us. Understanding ourselves takes patience and acceptance, and you can only accomplish those if you’re willing.” His thumb swipes over Dean’s kneecap, and Dean’s face heats in return. “You’re beautiful, and I just want to show you that, if I can.”

It can’t be true. It just can’t be. No matter how often Castiel shows him, Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever really come to terms with it. But maybe, he can begin to try.

-+-

Castiel splurges on the La Quinta in Flagstaff for a week, and Dean swears to every god known to man that no one will ever drag him out of the bathtub. Not that it’s even that great—it’s just a normal tub, wide enough for him to lie in without having to bend his knees uncomfortably—but after driving for ten hours in the snow, he’ll take anything that’s warm and doesn’t involve standing. Or moving.

Because of course it had to snow today. Out of all the days on their trip, it had to snow the minute they crossed into Arizona. So much so, that Dean had to park and drag out the snow chains that his father swore he’d need someday. Never will John get the satisfaction of knowing that just this one time, he was right.

In his trunk, Dean keeps a bag of Epsom salts, on the off-chance that he may need it someday in the future. Now, he soaks in effervescing lavender, the scent soothing him down to his aching bones. They should probably get dinner soon, or order something in; just the thought of walking makes him ache, toes curling against the cheap fiberglass. He lets the water soak into his skin until it cools and his fingers begin to prune. The only downside of baths—they don’t last long enough.

Wearing only a t-shirt and his briefs, Dean exits the bathroom, hair towel-dried, only to find Castiel sitting in the middle of his freshly laundered bed, attempting to stretch his back. “You got kinks?” Dean asks, immediately rephrasing when Castiel looks up at him with wide eyes. “In your back. My car hurt you?”

“I’m not used to older cars, I guess,” Castiel says, craning his neck from side to side. “I didn’t sleep last night. I’m convinced there was a rat in my mattress.”

A shiver rips up Dean’s spine. “Lesson learned, no more forty dollar motels?”

“Agreed,” Castiel says. His neck pops uncomfortably as he rotates his head, and Dean winces. “For the aesthetic, but not for sleeping.”

“Gotta learn the ropes the first few days.” Kneeing his way onto Castiel’s bed, Dean takes up the spot behind him and catches Castiel’s shoulders; Castiel flinches initially, afterwards softening, nearly slumping over when Dean begins to knead into the stiff muscles. “Dude, how much weight are you carrying back here?” Dean asks, jamming his thumb into a particularly nasty knot.

And Castiel outright moans, the noise going straight to Dean’s groin. _Not now_ , he scolds himself. “I miss my bed,” Castiel hisses. He fists the blankets underneath him, knuckles blanching; Dean knows this pain all too well, from uncomfortable mattresses to unfamiliar floors, the morning after always leaving him with an ache that even multiple painkillers can’t kill. Like a ragdoll, Castiel’s head listlessly hangs, body moving whichever way Dean moves him. “You should’ve been a masseuse.”

Dean laughs, briefly patting Castiel’s nape. _He’s so warm_ … “I just got magic fingers. How’s that feel?”

“Like heaven,” Castiel hums. His head lolls to the side, throat bared and vulnerable, and all Dean wants to do is kiss it, spend hours sucking marks into that tanned skin until Castiel moans his name. “You really are a jack of all trades.”

“Nah,” Dean squeaks, clearing his throat afterward. _Smooth, Winchester_. “I got all these talents, but I can’t finish school for the life of me. Can you believe I’ve been there for seven years?”

“I’ve had undergrad students well into their eighth and ninth years attending classes,” Castiel groans. One good thing Dean can say about himself, he knows how to please people. “You’re nowhere out of the norm, Dean.”

“I know, I know,” Dean huffs. He doesn’t pull away though, as much as he probably should, his attention solely focused on undoing all of Castiel’s stress. This might be better than sex. He gets to touch Castiel at will, and Castiel gets to leave feeling like Jell-O. “It just… feels weird. My brother’s out in California already graduated, and I’m still here trying to finish out a mechanical engineering degree.”

“You’ve never talked about your brother,” Castiel slurs, letting out a breath. “Are you estranged?”

Some days, it sure feels like it. “We just don’t talk a lot,” Dean sighs, tugging at the hem of Castiel’s shirt. Castiel catches the hint and falls onto his front, head facing the foot of the bed, giving Dean enough room to slide his hands underneath his shirt to begin kneading his lower back. “We’ll text every now and then, but I haven’t heard his voice in… a long time.”

“Did you ever tell him about your stage persona?” Castiel asks, genuinely curious. If only it didn’t make Dean’s stomach turn.

“Maybe once or twice,” Dean begins, low, calculated. “His friend interviewed me once, she was doing research on people in the sex industry. Somehow drag queens got dragged into that.” He snorts, feeling bold. It’s just them, after all—Castiel won’t judge him for his secrets. “He’s the only person that knows I’m gay.”

Dean fully expects Castiel to spring off the bed, despite the entire ordeal in the scrapyard. Instead, Castiel just relaxes even further into his hands, practically molding into the mattress. “You’re not alone, then,” Castiel assures him, and a sudden rush of heat overcomes Dean, all the way down to his toes.

Awareness hits him like cold water. Here, Castiel lies prone underneath him, shirt rucked up under his armpits with a beautiful flush dyeing his skin; Dean straddles his waist, hands firmly placed over the small of his back, like this is normal. Like he didn’t just come out to Castiel, and vice versa.

It should be… weird. This whole trip should be weird, but Dean can’t find a thing wrong with it. With his employment, with their relationship, or the fact that Castiel has seen him more naked than Dean’s last boyfriend ever did. Just… natural. Utterly, completely natural.

Maybe that’s what prompts him to kiss Castiel’s nape, without heat, just a simple press of lips against skin. And Castiel doesn’t admonish him for it, just rests there with a stupid grin on his face. That same grin grows when Dean does it again, and again. “We should go to the Grand Canyon, while we’re here,” Dean whispers as he pulls away, resuming his task. Castiel groans when Dean finds another knot, this one closer to his spine. “You like hiking?”

“I’ve never been,” Castiel mutters, breathless. “We could take tourist photos.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean laughs. “You hungry?”

“I ordered pizza while you were in the shower,” Castiel answers. As if on cue, Dean’s stomach growls. “Meat lovers sound fine?”

With a grin, Dean laughs, resting his head between Castiel’s shoulder blades. “Sounds perfect, Cas.”


	4. Chapter 4

The Grand Canyon costs thirty dollars more than Castiel is willing to spend, but that thirty dollars gets him into the park for a week, and includes parking. It’s still snowing when he pulls into the lot with Dean, with majority of the parking spots sitting empty. Snow lines the curbs and flat areas of the bus bay; the further they progress toward the south rim, the more it clings to even the roads.

“You’re really in for a treat today,” the bus driver explains to his audience of a whopping four people, chipper despite the freezing weather. Any other day, and Castiel wouldn’t be here either. The weather is supposed to clear tomorrow, though, and with that comes tourists and crowded pathways, and more people than Castiel is willing to be around at one time. “If you’re willing to walk the rim, you’ll be able to see this glorious monument covered in snow!”

“And freeze in the process,” Dean mutters under his breath, rubbing his gloved hands together. This far back in the bus, no one can hear them over the rumble of the engine. “You sure you wanna hike in this weather?”

“It’ll be fine,” Castiel says, not entirely sure of himself.

Sure, both of them are dressed in two pairs of everything, even underwear, but clothing can only cut the cold down so much. The snow adds another unfavorable factor to the mix, especially when it drives sideways. Now, it falls almost sweetly, in large flakes that fall like confetti, wafting in the breeze.

Hopefully, it’ll stay like this for the whole hike; anything heavier, and Castiel might just give up. Dean is already halfway there, from the looks of it.

The bus drops them off outside of Mather Point. Instead of taking the path northwest, Dean leads them via a map from the bus bay around the rim, towards the South Kaibab Trail and well beyond the regularly traveled path. In the snow, all Castiel can see is the few footsteps before him. Wide swaths of land turn to barely traversable edges, in which Castiel clings to Dean’s shoulder and digs his fingers into the bulky fabric of Dean’s jacket, just to hold on and feel something warm in his grasp.

It’s beautiful, though: the canyon to his left and the rock faces on his right, the reds and oranges muted by white; the sky, giving the endless abyss of the canyon itself a bit more perspective; the utter stillness of it, silence enveloping them save for their breaths and footfalls. Dean reaches back occasionally, grasping at Castiel’s wrist to pull him along. They don’t talk much here, other than occasionally urging each other to watch out, but it’s a comfortable silence anyway. A beautiful one, even.

A few times, Castiel stops to photograph the expanse of the canyon walls, spreading out as far as the horizon will go. Dean sneaks into the frame sometimes, just shots of his back with his hands in his pockets, looking like he belongs there.

Impossibly, Castiel wants to hold him even more, just to keep him close.

The rocky outcroppings give way to a flatter section of land, where the snow stretches far and wide and Castiel can walk without fearing for his own safety. An hour must’ve passed by now, maybe two; his phone stopped working somewhere along the way, the temperature forcing it to shut down for the foreseeable future. Dean’s watch is their only timekeeper, but neither of them have exactly kept track of when they left the hotel or when they arrived at the park. All Castiel knows, is that it’s now noon, and here he is, looking out from the edge of the canyon at the multicolored changes in earth, cascading down the canyon walls, all the way to the Colorado River.

All of the air in the world doesn’t feel like enough when he inhales. The sight of the canyon robs his breath, and apparently Dean’s as well. “Doesn’t feel real, standing here,” Dean says, both hands in his pockets and steam pouring from his mouth. Faintly, Dean shivers, and Castiel reaches between them to take his wrist in hand, too awed to do much else. “Like God’s playing some… cosmic joke on everyone, some kinda mass hallucination, y’know?”

Castiel nods, exhaling through his nose. “In pictures it seems so… different. Like a painting, but standing here…”

“It’s a dream,” Dean laughs, palming his face. “Here I was, never thought I’d ever leave Kansas, and now I’m in fuckin’… Arizona, looking at this. And I got my pants on this time.”

At that, Castiel laughs, the cold stinging his throat. “We can do more side trips if you want. Places that don’t involve you having to disrobe in snowstorms.”

“Shit yeah,” Dean agrees. Facing Castiel, the green of Dean’s eyes stands out against the tears flowing down his cheeks. Whether from elation or the cold, Castiel doesn’t know, but he thumbs away the wetness before he can stop himself; Dean just smiles, sheepish despite their solitude. “Ready to head back to the car before we freeze out here?”

Involuntarily, Castiel shivers, shaking the snow from his shoulders. “I thought you’d never ask.”

-+-

According to a cursory internet search and numerous calls to local park rangers in the area, there are still a few buildings remaining at the Elkmont campground in Tennessee, hidden down a path on Fighting Gap Road heading towards Cades Cove. If Castiel times it right, they can make it there in three days.

A trip out east will do them both good. Away from the dryness of the high desert and to somewhere more humid, where their skin won’t crack and their noses won’t run. Besides, they can drive alongside old Route 66 on their way, and stop by any abandoned structures as they go. It’d be mostly for Dean’s benefit; if Castiel has learned anything about him in the last few days, it’s that Dean is fascinated with derelict buildings.

Whatever the reason, Castiel plans to indulge him in whatever way he can, even if it means pulling off the side of the road every few minutes just to take pictures. Nothing revealing, unless Dean feels up to it, but those instances are few and far between now.

Or, at least, Castiel thought. Because now, Dean stands at the foot of the bed, hands on his lace-covered hips, wearing the most elegant nightie Castiel has ever seen. Sheer red fabric caresses and drapes off Dean with ease, and black faux fur adorns the collar and sleeves, as well as the long hem that falls to the floor. Underneath, he’s naked save for a pair of red lace panties, his thighs decorated with scarlet garters and leggings. Regularly full lips are even more stunning now, painted to match his outfit and looking more seductive than ever. His eyes are made up, as well, shadowed in black and browns to bring out the green of his irises.

Castiel swallows—or at least tries to, all of his fine motor functions reduced to blinking and trying to keep his tongue in his mouth.

“I want your honest opinion,” Dean says, cocking his hips to the side. Castiel can’t help but watch, transfixed on the subtle curve contained behind so little lace. “You think this still fits?”

Fits—does it fit? Castiel’s boxers don’t. “It—I think it looks fine,” Castiel stutters, halfheartedly wishing he could hurl his laptop across the room and tear the clothes off of Dean.

With the utmost grace, Dean knees his way onto the bed while Castiel struggles to remember words, almost too fixated on Dean to notice him shoving the laptop aside and straddling Castiel’s lap. A light flush reddens Dean’s chest, all the way up to his neck, but from what Castiel can tell, it isn’t arousal. Fear, maybe, from the way Dean’s arms tremble when he loops them around Castiel’s neck. “You can touch me,” Dean says as he settles, firmly planting his ass on Castiel’s thighs. “Hips, though. I don’t wanna ruin this, y’know?”

Ruin what? The moment? The fabric? Castiel thanks every god known to man that the sheets separate them, or else he would have to deal with Dean’s skin against his. Cautiously, Castiel reaches out to cradle Dean’s slim hips, thumbing over the jut of bone there and the meat of his stomach, grown softer in recent months.

“Why this?” Castiel manages to say, finally. Looking up, he watches Dean throw his head back, wiggling his shoulders a bit to loosen the fabric around his neck. “Where have you been keeping this?”

“Got a lockbox under the backseat,” Dean admits. Timidly, he looks down to his lap, then back up. Castiel can see the beauty there, in all of him, down to the freckles that still pop on his face, no matter how much makeup he wears. “I figure, we get a nicer hotel one day, we can break this baby out?”

Castiel deeply regrets not shelling out all of his cash on a Four Seasons right now. “You’re proud of this,” he suggests, to which Dean nods. Fur from Dean’s sleeves tickles Castiel’s neck, fabric draped over his back, and faintly, he can feel Dean’s fingers teasing his nape. “How much did it cost you?”

“Would you believe it was actually a gift?” Dean asks with a laugh, hiding his face in Castiel’s neck. His arms shift, and—oh, this is a hug. Dean is hugging him, even if he’s too shy to look him in the eye. It takes Castiel a minute, but he returns the embrace, arms underneath the robe and hands cradling the warm skin between Dean’s shoulder blades. “My friend gave it to me a few months ago. Said it was her grandmother’s, and that I looked like just the girl to wear it again.” Another chuckle, and Dean holds him tighter, nails digging in just enough for Castiel to really feel it. “Do you ever get that feeling… like you don’t feel right in your body?”

Castiel narrows his eyes, idly rubbing circles over Dean’s back. “I can’t say that I do,” he wonders aloud. “Like you’re not yourself?”

“Like I’m not anything.” Dean sits back with reluctance, allowing Castiel to trace his skin as he pulls away, hands resettling on hips. “Objectively, I’m a dude, right? I got a dick and my tits are flat, so that makes me a guy. But sometimes I don’t… feel like it. And I don’t really feel like a chick either, but I don’t mind all the skimpy things or being called one? I’m… in the middle, I guess.”

“Fluid,” Castiel offers.

Dean nods, a grin splitting his reddened lips. “Yeah, something like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m right where I wanna be, but… Some days it’s just weird, to look at yourself and to think, yeah, I’m Jacey today, and there’s nothing wrong with it.”

 Castiel taps Dean’s hips with both thumbs, his own grin palpable. “Because it’s you,” he assures. “And whoever you are is perfect.”

Draped in red from head to toe, Dean blushes to match, ducking his head again. “God, you really do know how to flatter a guy, don’t you?” he chuckles. “So what were you looking for, before I crawled up here?”

“Oh.”

And Castiel reaches for his laptop, like nothing ever happened. Like there’s nothing but the trip and casual conversation. Granted, Dean’s still wiggling in Castiel’s lap, but the initial heat is gone. Even then, Castiel feels comfort swoop in with the knowledge that Dean trusts him enough to continue to divulge secret after secret. And one day, Castiel will fill him in as well, though his life is nowhere near as interesting.

Castiel is only a photographer and a historian, and a man in search of anyone who can love him enough to treat him as an equal and look past the scars on his arms and over his heart. And somehow, he feels Dean may be that person.

“There’s this abandoned town out in the Smokies,” Castiel says, tearing his eyes away from Dean’s with visible reluctance. He nearly dumps his laptop over onto its side, but he eventually manages to wrangle it to face Dean. The website reads _Great Smokies_ at the top. “A lot of the main buildings have burnt down over the years, but there’s still a few cabins we could visit. How do you feel about flannel?”

At that, Dean laughs, his eyes wrinkling at the edges. “I got asked once to be a part of a mock calendar for one of the modeling classes on campus. They wanted me to be a lumberjack.”

Castiel snorts. “Did you do it?”

“Shit yeah,” Dean answers. “Grew a beard and everything. I look good in plaid, just so you know.”

“I bet you do,” Castiel snickers. “We can make it there in three days, if you’d want to leave tomorrow.”

“Dude.” Dean stops to slap Castiel’s shoulder. “We’re totally stopping at Cadillac Ranch. I’ve wanted to see that since I was a kid. My mom used to talk about wanting to stop there, but then she and my old man…” He waves his hand, gesturing vaguely to the window. “Anyway, can we go?”

Castiel just offers a grin. “Sure, Dean.”

-+-

_Memphis, Tennessee_

They end up sleeping at a rest stop two days later, Dean spread out in the driver’s seat while Castiel rests his head in the mound of his jacket, feet tickling the rear door. Large as the Impala is, fitting two six-foot men lengthwise in any car is a stretch. Outside, the neon glow of the Pilot Travel Center sign glows through the windows, casting the leather in a reddish glow; faintly, Castiel can hear the idling of trucks in the distance, engines rumbling steadily.

“Not how I thought I’d ever get to see Memphis,” Dean slurs from the other side of the bench. His bare back shifts against the seat, scrunching as he moves.

For all the frigid winters in this half of the country, Tennessee is surprisingly warm. As much as Castiel would appreciate leaving the car running, Dean shuts it off, bathing them in the still of the night. The humidity makes Castiel sweat, his breath coming out heated and thick in the air. Out of his own stubbornness, Castiel keeps his clothes on, enduring the heat for just a few more hours. Long enough to rest his bones and to settle after a long day of driving down unfamiliar roads, storms bearing down at their backs.

Above, lighting streaks through the cloudy sky, but no sound accompanies it; right now, the rain would be a blessing.

“We could’ve gotten a room,” Castiel says, not unkindly, but Dean still huffs. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“No, I get it,” Dean sighs. Groaning, he sits up, and Castiel spots his ruffled hair over the seat. Bleary green eyes look down at him. “But we’ve only got six hours to Gatlinburg. I thought it’d be easier to just…” _To stay here_ , the words go unsaid. “The car ain’t the most comfortable thing, but… she’s my home. Kinda have to live out of her between semesters.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. For what, he isn’t exactly sure. Dean doesn’t pester him about it though, just disappears from view for a long second before Castiel hears something pop. To his shock, the entire front bench collapses and slots into place over the footwell, effectively creating a massive mattress. And from that mattress, Dean grins, effectively spreading himself out as far as he can. “You—Why didn’t you do that earlier?”

“Told you, I live out of here. I got an aftermarket bench from the auto shop I worked at for a while, put her in myself.” Dean rolls onto his back and pats the spot beside him, sweaty hand sticking to the leather. “Come on, spread out a little. You’re gonna get a cramp like that.”

Castiel mocks annoyance and rolls his eyes, but ultimately assents, pushing up off of the bench and crawling to lay opposite Dean, feet-to-face. It’s easier this way, where he doesn't have to look Dean in the eye while he sleeps. They’ve spent the last few days in separate beds—never this close, never where Castiel could reach out and touch at will or draw Dean into his arms. And Dean would go willingly, he knows. That’s what scares him the most. Not how much he wants this, but knowing how much Dean wants as well.

Resting like this is more comfortable, Castiel has to admit. Lying on his side, Castiel pillows his head on his jacket and closes his eyes, listening to the steady rise and fall of Dean’s breath and the rumbling of the trucks. A car door slams; a child cries out from the backseat of a minivan. “I’ve never seen so many stars,” Castiel admits, more offhand than anything. Dean regards him with one eye open, toe nudging Castiel’s forehead. “Living in Los Angeles… I only saw a few. Not like here. Even with the streetlights… I can see constellations.”

“You’ve really never seen them?” Dean asks, leaning up on one elbow. “Like, really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about something so minor,” Castiel says. “I just find it… strange, a grown man having never really seen the sky.”

Dean grabs Castiel’s arm before Castiel can fully register what he’s doing, and in the next second, Dean’s dragging him out of the car and into the parking lot. But he doesn’t stop there; he keeps walking, nearing the tree line. “Pretty sure we’ll see more of ‘em where we’re going,” Dean mentions, a hand to Castiel’s shoulder, “but this is close enough.”

With little prompting, Castiel looks up—and sees. Hundreds upon thousands of stars dot the black sky through the gaps in the clouds, all twinkling in the absence of the moon. Castiel’s breath catches at the sight, heart in his throat. Despite the humidity and the sweat running down his back, despite the aches and exhaustion, what he sees makes it all worth it. Star after star, each an infinitesimal speck, but they all come together to make something so beautiful.

“It’s strange,” Castiel comments, just as the clouds part to reveal just where the moon was hiding. “How light can skew your vision.”

Nudging Castiel’s shoulder, Dean hums a wordless tune. “Big cities are great and all, but small towns really let you see the world for what it is.” There’s a pause as his feet scrape against the asphalt. “’Bout the only good thing there is about them.”

Castiel can’t help it; under the cover of night, he drapes his arm around Dean’s shoulder and tugs him closer, allowing Dean to rest against his side. Or, more like _collapse_ against him. “You ever been to Tennessee?” Dean asks, words slower now, tinged with fatigue. They both need to sleep. Hopefully tomorrow, they can rest someplace that isn’t the backseat of Dean’s car, somewhere with a bed and a shower and a continental breakfast.

“I haven’t been east of the Mississippi,” Castiel admits, covering his mouth with a yawn. “We’ll get to experience it together.”

Slowly, Dean nods, relaxing ever so slightly. “Looking forward to it.”

-+-

 

_Gatlinburg, Tennessee_

 

It isn’t exactly raining the morning Castiel wakes up in Gatlinburg, but it isn’t exactly not, either. In fact, looking out of his cottage window at the rippling river and the exposed soil underneath the pines, all Castiel can see is a thick blanket of fog and a very light drizzle.

Dreary is one word for it. Depressing is another. The absence of the sun leaves Castiel in a foul mood , unwilling to move underneath the blankets or do much other than lie there, acutely aware of every single exhale. With only the sound of the bathroom fan running, he’s left to his own thoughts.

Dean sleeping on the other side of the bed doesn’t help, either. For once, Castiel can’t bear to be touched, or to even be close to another person; the scars on his arms flare to life as unbidden memories dance behind his eyelids. As elated as he was the night before to finally share a bed with Dean, he doesn’t feel… anything. None of the shyness they shared as they settled in, nor the excitement before they passed out.

_Just a bad morning_ , he tells himself, though deep down, he knows better. With the heater broken, all Castiel can do is lay there and curl into himself, seeking the warmth he can’t seem to find.

A hand falls atop Castiel’s shoulder, sliding down the length of his arm to find his elbow. “You’re crying,” Dean says, and—Castiel is. When he started, he doesn’t know, but he reaches up to wipe away the tears as quickly as he can. “Does anything hurt?”

“Just… a bad morning,” Castiel mumbles. That’s the only way he can explain it, the only way he’s ever been able to explain it. Sure, the up days are more often than not, but some days, he just… can’t. Can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t exist.

The mattress dips at Castiel’s back, and ever so slowly, Dean worms his way into Castiel’s space, an arm around his waist with his body pressed against Castiel’s back, both of them turned towards the fog. Just barely, Castiel’s heart pangs, a brief spark of life singing through his veins again. “You wanna spend the day in?” Dean asks. “We could watch TV all day, order pizza or something.” Castiel doesn’t answer. A squirrel darts past the screen door, and he finds himself strangely envious of its freedom. “C’mon, Cas, talk to me.”

A sigh. Castiel grabs at the bedsheets, clenching his fists and allowing his fingers to ache with the pressure. “I pushed myself out of my comfort zone,” Castiel admits, turning his face into the pillow. “I’m not as extroverted as you think I am.”

“I figured,” Dean says. “You don’t look like the kinda guy that goes out and parties every night.”

“I’m not,” Castiel says. Gingerly, he rolls over, managing to dislodge Dean just enough to sprawl out on his back. Perched on his elbow, Dean looks at him with worry in his eyes, brow furrowed. “I look like I have my life together, but I’m far from perfect. The truth is, the less I focus on what needs to be done, the more… I drift.”

Dean blinks, slow, methodical. “Like, you’re rooted to your job?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” Castiel shakes his head, draping an arm over his eyes. It really is harder to explain than he thought, how busying himself is the only thing that keeps him alive. How if fails to complete a given task, then the entire effort feels meaningless. “I’ve never been diagnosed with anything,” Castiel says. “The doctors always said I was too high functioning to have major depression, because I could go about my day and pretend that everything was okay. I could engage in conversation, I could teach classes, I could even give lectures to hundreds of people in conferences without a hint of anxiety.

“But they only saw me when I was active.” Letting his arm fall onto the bed, Castiel turns onto his side, facing Dean. “When I had a goal in mind. I don’t really… have one here. I’m just traveling, and I’m getting to know you. The project is only an afterthought.”

Dean sinks back down beside Castiel, tugging him closer with an arm around his waist. And Castiel lets him, hiding his face under Dean’s chin. Childish, yes, but any little thing helps. “We can make this strictly business, if you need to,” Dean offers.

Castiel closes his eyes; it’s the exact opposite of what he wants, but it’s probably what he needs the most. His first trip outside of Kansas since he started teaching that wasn’t solely for business, and he can’t even enjoy it. What kills him the most is that he can’t even bring himself to enjoy Dean’s company.

“That’s not what I want,” Castiel says, barely a whisper. Dean runs his hand beneath Castiel’s shirt, tracing the outline of his spine in incremental circles. There’s no other movement, no hushed platitudes. Just the solace of touch and steady, focused breaths, and a stable heart beating against Castiel’s own. “I want this. And I plan to keep traveling, and to keep photographing you, but… Am I doing the right thing? I have plans, yes, but do they mean anything if I don’t have anything to show for it?”

“You do, though.” With a single finger, Dean tilts Castiel’s face up, until they lay eye to eye, lips so close yet not enough. Castiel flushes, thankful for the darkness. “You’ve got all these great pictures, and we’ve seen more of the country in the last week or two than we’ve probably ever seen. We went to the Grand Canyon, which I gotta say, highlight of the tour right there.” Dean laughs, tugging Castiel closer, until their hips press flush together. “There’s still time. It doesn’t have to be done in the first week.”

“I know,” Castiel sighs. As much as he hates to admit it, he does know. But if it were anyone else, if Dean were an equally attractive woman or a less than stellar man, then Castiel wouldn’t be stuck in the predicament he is now. Dean is a distraction. He has been from the start, with his compassion and grace, the vastness of his soul. “I’m beginning to think,” and he stops to lift his hand, letting the backs of his fingers slide across Dean’s sleep-warmed cheek and into his hair, “that you’re… too good for me.”

Dean doesn’t react, at least not like Castiel expected him to. No laughter, no hiding his emotions behind self-deprecating smiles; Dean just holds him, arm cradling the back of Castiel’s head. “There’s plenty of guys that’re better than me, Cas,” Dean mutters, his dark tone tainting the calm of the moment. “I’m just the first one that called.”

“But you stayed.” Castiel pulls away, enough to dislodge Dean’s hold and to prop himself up on one elbow. “You could’ve been the tenth person to walk in my door, and they wouldn’t’ve been any better than you.”

“This ain’t about me,” Dean joshes, turning his face away. “If I’m… If I’m distracting you, if I’m the reason you don't think you’re—”

Castiel silences Dean with a finger to his lips. “I’m not turning you away just because I’m attracted to you,” Castiel says. Beneath him, Dean’s eyes widen, mouth parting ever so slightly; if Castiel wanted, he could slip his finger inside, watch Dean take it in between those full lips and _suck_. “It’s just… something I’ll have to put up with.”

At that, Dean snorts. “Guess I’mma have to put up with how much I’ve been wanting to suck you off, too, then.” Abruptly, he stops, eyes widening. Castiel’s heart skitters in his chest, stomach twisting with the sudden surge of want overriding every other thought. Dean wants to suck him off— _Dean wants to suck me off_. “Since we’re being honest and everything.”

“You don’t—You don’t have to,” Castiel stammers, higher brain function relinquished to his groin. “Orgasms don’t work like that.”

“No, but it’ll take your mind off it. C’mon.” And somehow, Dean manages to get even closer, a leg thrust between Castiel’s, thigh pressed tight against where Castiel wants it. Truthfully, has wanted it ever since Dean walked in his apartment door. Dean, the light in his shadows. “You don’t gotta look at me if you don’t wanna. I’ve just… I can’t get you out of my head.”

Castiel swallows, tongue thick in his mouth. “Dean…”

Dean shushes him with a hand to Castiel’s chest, pressed square over the scar Dean can’t see. “Let me do this,” Dean begs, breath hot against Castiel’s lips. “Please?”

Words failing him, all Castiel can do is nod and watch Dean sink beneath the sheets. Regretfully, he can’t see Dean, but he can see the shape of him, sliding sinuously under the covers; hands cup Castiel’s hips and draw his boxers down his legs, and—oh, that’s his mouth, with no preamble whatsoever. Castiel throws his head back, eyes pinched shut, while Dean holds him, lips sliding wetly over the head of his half-hard cock in sweet envelopment. It’s almost too gentle to be real.

Saying Dean’s name takes more effort than Castiel thought it would, given the current state of affairs. Still, he manages, mouth hanging open, all while Dean sucks him down, tongue licking its way up to his slit. It’s been years since Castiel has felt like this, so worshiped and adored by a partner. If he really thinks about it, it might be the first time ever.

A hand grips the meat of Castiel’s thigh, spreading him wider, and Castiel just lets it happen. Enraptured, he reaches down to palm Dean’s head over the sheets, cock twitching against the flat of Dean’s tongue. His mouth is so warm, like velvet in the way Dean strokes him, fingers wrapped firmly around what he can’t swallow. For a while, all Castiel can do is thrust up as shallowly as he can, panting humidly into the silence of the room, while Dean pins his thighs down.

How Dean can manage it, Castiel has no clue. He knows he’s bigger than most men and thicker, but Dean takes him in stride. _God_ , Castiel wants to see it. Gathering the last of his resolve, he tugs the blankets down just enough to see Dean’s face, and that alone almost makes him come: lips split wide around him with spit and precome spilling down Dean’s chin, Dean’s eyes glazed over and cheeks scalding red, looking every bit of a sin as Castiel has dared to dream about.

Dean pulls off long enough to suck in a stuttering breath, stroking Castiel’s cock in his fist in the interim; his thumb toys just beneath the head, drawing free another rush of precome. All Castiel can do is moan and thrust up, so close yet nowhere near. “You can let go,” Dean pants, mouthing kisses along the underside. “C’mon, wanna see you come.”

“Dean,” Castiel huffs, head thrown back. Aimlessly, he reaches for Dean and tangles his fingers in his hair. Dean suckles at the crown again, and it’s just enough warmth for him to tip over the edge.

Castiel comes with a shallow cry, lower lip between his teeth and eyes drawn shut, while Dean strokes him, palming his balls and draining him of every last drop. When he looks up—when his bones don’t feel like lead weights and his muscles unclench—the sight of Dean’s come-splattered chin nearly steals his breath again, even more so when Dean licks the rest from his thumb. Maybe they should’ve discussed this before Dean decided to blow him—or discussed this at all, what their mutual attraction means.

Dean kissing him, though—that, Castiel will never tire of. Even if Dean’s lips taste like some combination of morning breath and Castiel’s release, Castiel can’t bring himself to care, not even when Dean pulls away to laugh. “Maybe we should’ve been doing this from the beginning,” he says, hoarse. Castiel can’t find it in himself to disagree. “It’d be a hell of a lot more fun.”

“The tension’s what makes it worth it, though,” Castiel says. Dean just grins, sneaking in another kiss before moving to slide out of bed, briefs tented obscenely. “You don’t want help?”

“It’ll go down,” Dean assures him. “I wanna show you what I picked out for this next shoot.”

Castiel’s stomach flutters pleasantly; he can’t wait.


	5. Chapter 5

The fog doesn’t let up even as the afternoon drags on, exacerbated by a steady rain and steadily falling temperatures. Dean isn’t really watching, though, not when he’s sprawled out against the headboard, legs propped up against the wall and hands folded behind his head, wearing nothing but his underwear and a loose t-shirt.

Castiel isn’t faring any better in the clothing department, currently naked save for a pair of white boxers. Not even Dean’s fantasies could match up to what he’s looking at now. Castiel is… impressive, physically, with thighs Dean would like to sink his teeth into and enough hair on his chest to run his fingers through. Even tug, if he wanted.

Scars color the inside of Castiel’s arms and over his heart, the only sliver of his pec not covered in hair. “Hey,” Dean says, lazy, reaching over to pet over it. He lets his hand rest over Castiel’s pec, swallowing at the sudden jump in Castiel’s heart rate under his palm. “Where’d you get that?”

Castiel takes a hollow, deflating breath before he replies. “My wrists are easier to describe,” he says, eyes downcast. The blow job had worked to cheer Castiel up for a bit; now, the effect has ebbed away, and all Dean can do is listen to him. “I got desperate one night, about five years ago. I thought stabbing myself would work.”

Dean swallows. Runs his thumb over the curve of Castiel’s pec. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t practical.” Castiel shrugs minutely. “But… I wasn’t in my right mind. I came to before I did any major damage, but I still had the scar to show. I was staying with Hannah at the time.” He stops to laugh, hollow in his chest; Dean winces, but doesn’t turn away. “I couldn’t show her, and I couldn’t admit I’d done it, so I did what I could to cover it up. I don't think she ever found out. You’re the first person I’ve told, actually.”

Gently, Dean strokes down Castiel’s chest, resting his hand over his navel. “I’m glad you told me,” he whispers, to which Castiel nods. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

“Thank you,” Castiel mumbles. “Some days I don’t know how I hold on.”

“I know that feeling,” Dean admits. Turning onto his side, Dean crosses one leg over the other and rests his head atop Castiel’s stomach, earning a chuckle from Castiel and a hand to his hair. This is nice, nicer than anyone Dean has ever been with. Like he can be himself here, unabashedly adored without judgement. “You like cuddling?”

At that, Castiel flushes, red beginning to creep down his neck. “I’ve never had the occasion. The men I normally…”

Dean just snickers. “C’mon, it’s fun. Sharing body warmth and all that. It’s fuckin’—Shit, it’s actually snowing outside.” And it is, in thick flakes that cling to the rocks and the concrete stoop, and to the tree limbs as they begin to sag. Dean has seen snow before—every year, actually—but this is solemn. Not the usual joy of running outside with his friends to destroy the untouched snow, or the thrill of an unexpected day off.

Castiel may need physical contact, Dean thinks, but Dean needs Castiel. Snow can and always will be a viable excuse for cuddles. “Just get over here,” Dean huffs with an eye roll. Yet, he smiles, and Castiel follows along, rolling onto his side. Worming his way into position takes some effort, but he makes it work, managing to rotate himself fully to face Castiel. Their legs tangle, and Dean throws an arm around Castiel’s hip; he keeps his other tucked beneath Castiel’s neck, where he toys with his hair.

Like this, Dean can feel every inch of Castiel, cool from the ambient air but warm from proximity. Sometimes, he really does forget that Castiel is older than him, and broader, with eyes deeper than the oceans and a spirit Dean could never forget if he tried. In the light reflecting off the snow, Dean watches Castiel’s eyes flutter closed, their foreheads pressed close. Close enough to feel Castiel’s breath against his lips, to feel the rise and fall of his chest with every inhale.

 _I love you_ , Dean aches to say, heart palpating dangerously, painfully. Instead, he runs the tips of his fingers through Castiel’s hair, earning a content sigh. “Can I tell you a secret?” Dean asks, to which Castiel nods. “I just… really like you.”

Castiel’s eyes open just barely, a sliver of blue peeking through. “I like you too,” he confesses. His toes tease the tops of Dean’s feet, more intimate than Dean has ever felt. “I’m sorry I ruined today.”

Dean blinks, nudges Castiel’s nose with his own. “You didn't ruin anything,” Dean tries, offering a smile. “This is even better than walking around in the mud, and I still got to take my clothes off.”

Castiel huffs a laugh, eyes shut. This time when Dean kisses him, Castiel is as relaxed as he can be, lips parting with little insistence and his tongue just barely tracing Dean’s lower lip. That’s as far as they go, at least for today. Right now, all Dean wants to do is hold him and keep the nightmares at bay, even if it’s only for a few minutes at a time. Because Castiel deserves it—and Castiel deserves a whole lot more than him.

“You shouldn’t be so nice to me,” Castiel mutters, voice slurred with exhaustion. “I’m not…”

“Don’t,” Dean shushes him with another kiss. “Keep bad-mouthing yourself and I’m gonna rev up my charm.”

This time, Castiel laughs full-heartedly. “Where were you when I needed you years ago?”

 _Graduating high school_ , Dean thinks, hiding his smile in the dark. “Waiting for right now,” is all Dean says, kissing the dimple of Castiel’s chin. “Wanna order in for dinner?”

Castiel nods. The skin around his eyes wrinkles with his grin, and honestly, Dean has never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

-+-

“I have another idea, instead of driving out to some place that probably ain’t there,” Dean says the following morning, pulling on a pair of hiking boots over his jeans. Across the room, Castiel pulls on a heavy jacket, lined with faux fur around the collar. “I got to googling when you were sleeping.”

“Did you now?” Castiel muses, crossing the room to sit at the edge of the bed with his boots in hand. Lacing them up, he adds, “Is it somewhere we can drive in the snow?”

“Probably not, but I got chains.” Dean shrugs, flopping back onto the mattress. “There’s this place, it’s kind of a ways off the road, but it’s got an old barn and a few houses and all that. Think it’d look nice, is all.”

Nice is an understatement. From the pictures Dean saw on the internet, it’s virtually untouched since the original occupants abandoned the area and entirely picturesque. The only hazard would be driving there, especially in this weather. Granted, the snow stopped overnight and most of the roads leading in and out of town have been plowed, but traversing the path through the mountains might be more trouble than Dean can handle.

Still, he wants to go. Castiel has picked out every location they’ve shot at, and Dean has never had any input until now. And if Castiel is willing, then he’ll do anything to make it work.

“You’re sure you want to drive out there?” Castiel asks, straightening his back. He casts a look over to Dean, wariness in his eyes, but Dean grins with as much confidence as he can. “What’s it called?”

“Cataloochee.” Dean reaches for his phone, abandoned next to his pillow, and brings up the photos in his history. Passing it over to Castiel, he continues, “I figure, we’re gonna be the only ones driving out there, so we don’t have to dodge any assholes in four-by-fours taking up the whole road.”

Castiel snorts, thumbing through photograph after photograph. “I think we can work with this. Do you think we should pack, in case you get us stranded?”

Dean can’t help but laugh. “Hey, we can always cuddle for warmth,” he says with a wink, and Castiel just rolls his eyes. “C’mon. Either we take my car or we’re renting a truck. Either way, someone’s helping me put chains on the tires.”

“You’re very insistent,” Castiel says, and leans over just before Dean can make his way off the bed. He sneaks a quick kiss, one that melts Dean to his bones. “I like that.”

Or maybe they could stay in bed all day, Dean thinks. That’s a good idea—but so is what they came here to do.

-+-

The drive to Cataloochee is a long slog through the mud and snow, around winding curves and hugging the mountainside in an effort to not drive off the road. Dean’s blood pressure has never been higher in his life; several times on the nine-mile stretch of road separating the main road from the valley, Dean has to stop to regain his grip on the wheel—and the path, for that matter. Castiel gets out to push once or twice when the hill’s slope begins to grow steeper. Honestly, that they make it there is a miracle in and of itself.

Somehow, they manage it. With buildings in sight, Dean parks outside of the Caldwell barn, or at least somewhere he hopes is close to the parking area. He can’t tell exactly what’s road and what isn’t, with the massive piles of snow blanketing the earth from tree line to tree line. Even the treetops are layered in the stuff, blending into the gray sky and creating a never-ending abyss of white. More snow than Dean has ever seen in his life—and it’s all his, with only Castiel to share it with.

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel says after Dean shuts the engine off, the engine ticking violently as it cools in the frigid air. Leaning over, he places his hands on the dashboard and looks out, blinking slowly at the swath of white around them. “I’ve never…”

“Me either,” Dean says. He reaches for his gloves under the front bench, shoving them on before he even dares to open the door. “You wanna build a snowman when we’re done?”

“I’ve never done anything in the snow,” Castiel says.

Dean balks. How? Thirty-two years old, and Castiel has never had a snow day? “Dude, we’re gonna have a snowball fight, even if we get frostbite,” he laughs. “Let’s go.”

With force, Dean pushes his way out of the Impala and steps foot into the snow, his footprints the only ones stamped into the earth. Castiel follows with little hesitance, slamming the door behind him; the sound echoes off the treetops, and from a distance, Dean watches a crow fly off, scattering snow into the forest floor below. To their right is a barn with an overhead loft, and on the other side of the road sits a two story house, the front walkway buried. Castiel leads him into the barn, through the swinging double doors and into a room full of dirt and spider webs.

But no snow. Just dirt, spider webs, and blissfully dry ground. “I never thought I’d see dirt again,” Dean laughs, yanking off his gloves and shoving them in his coat pockets. “Alright, we’re here. What d’you have in mind?”

What Castiel has in mind, to Dean’s embarrassment, is shorts. Not just shorts, but short shorts, fringed at the hem and riding well up his legs, exposing practically everything. Dean’s blood only burns hotter at the sight of them. While Castiel readies his camera, Dean slips out of everything save for his jock, this one with lace over the crotch, and pulls the shorts on, adjusting himself however he can. Until Castiel finishes whatever he’s doing, Dean stands with his socks on and jacket pulled over his shoulders, praying he doesn’t freeze before this is over. It’s only thirty-one degrees out, and here he is, standing next to naked in the elements.

“We’ll take some down here first,” Castiel starts, clearing his throat. “We can go into the loft if you’re not too cold?”

“I know how you can warm me up,” Dean teases with a smirk. Internally, he prides himself on Castiel’s sudden flush, then pulls his coat off. “Tell me how you want me, boss man.”

To Dean’s delight, Castiel makes it quick, leaving Dean unclothed for as short a period of time as possible to save him from the chill. Castiel makes use of everything the bottom floor of the barn has to offer, namely the wooden stairwell, the doors, and an open window Dean can climb up in. Each pose grows progressively lewder as Dean begins to warm with arousal, skin no doubt flushing despite the cold. By the time they make it into the loft, Dean is practically busting out of his shorts, several times having to adjust himself just to make it less obvious.

Dean has always liked being watched, sue him.

“I’d like you to take your shorts off,” Castiel mentions the second they make it upstairs. A shiver runs up Dean’s spine, his cock jumping unhelpfully. “As much as you can, at least.”

“Can’t show the goods, now, can we?” Dean laughs.

Here, the cold rushes in even faster through the large window at the head of the barn, overlooking the field and the Impala below. For a brief moment, Dean contemplates ignoring it; Castiel already shot him in the window downstairs, and how many more photographs does he need? He notices, though, just how spectacular the view is out this window, down over the mountains and their endless white expanse. “You think this’ll work?” Dean asks, looking over his shoulder to find Castiel already on the job, smiling behind the lens.

“Whatever you want,” Castiel says, rougher than before. Dean swallows with the implication, and the not-so-subtle bulge in Castiel’s jeans. So Dean isn’t alone in this. _Good_.

Dean undoes his zipper and slides down his shorts just enough to expose the waistband of his jock before lowering himself into the window, feet propped up on the opposite edge and arms loosely hanging over his head. Just slightly, he turns his head to look outside, then back again, eyes to the floor; all the while, he listens to the gentle hum of the shutter and Castiel’s soft encouragements.

“Beautiful,” Castiel finishes, after a while, and Dean breathes a sigh when Castiel shuts off the camera. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more beautiful.”

Dean would return the sentiment, if he weren’t preoccupied with finding his jacket. He shrugs it on as quickly as possible when he does, relishing in forgotten warmth. It only gets better when Castiel embraces him from behind, his breath hot on Dean’s neck. “We should head back to the car,” Castiel says, broad hands coming to rest over Dean’s bare stomach.

Dean knows Castiel’s hands are huge, but seeing them pressed against his skin, taking up most of the skin visible, is enough to renew his interest; a shiver wracks him, and Castiel hums in approval. This is happening. This is actually going to happen, and it’s not only Dean’s idea.

Once behind the wheel, Dean cranks the engine and blasts the heat as hot as it can go, still shaking even as the temperature begins to rise. Castiel holding him helps, draping Dean’s coat over the both of them and tucking Dean close to his chest; Dean basks in the moment, in Castiel, and lets his head tip back onto Castiel’s shoulder, only for Castiel’s lips to meet the column of his throat in a wet, scalding kiss. Dean’s gut roils pleasantly, hips bucking just the slightest under pressure.

“Look at you,” Castiel hums, peppering kisses along Dean’s neck before centering underneath his ear, where he sucks at the skin. “You’re teasing me on purpose.”

Dean grins and opens his mouth to say something cheeky, but gasps when Castiel’s hand sneaks around his waist and lies flat over his zipper. “Wish I could say I started it,” Dean chuckles when he finds words again. Tilting his head into the crook of Castiel’s neck, he closes his eyes and allows Castiel to undo his fly, working to shove his shorts down just enough to expose him. “You gonna get me off, Cas?”

“Think of it as returning the favor,” Castiel remarks with just as much mirth.

Castiel’s hand dips beneath the elastic of Dean’s jock and pulls him free, stroking him a few times for emphasis. All Dean can do is swallow a moan, toes curling in his socks. If he thinks about it, he can’t exactly remember the last time a man touched him, especially so intimately. Based on how close he is from the most basic of hand jobs, though, it’s definitely been way too long. Dean can’t see Castiel’s hand under his jacket, solely reliant on his sense of touch; he focuses on the way Castiel gathers up the precome spilling from Dean’s cock to slick his way, fisting the length of him easily and dragging his fingers up his shaft. From that alone, he could melt.

Castiel pays special attention to the head, thumbing across his slit and drawing forth more fluid. It’s been months, years, since Dean has been this wet, especially in the hands of someone else—and especially someone Dean has grown to care for, as well. Castiel treats him like he’s precious and fragile, and as much as Dean hates it, he also thrives on the adoration. “No one’s ever…” Dean starts, red-faced. “Not like this, not…”

“You’re okay,” Castiel assures him, kissing his temple. Just barely, Dean can feel him trembling, and not from the cold. He slicks up Dean’s cock again and slips his other hand down to fondle Dean’s sac, rolling his balls in his grasp. Dean almost loses it right there, mouth gaping as he moans. “How’s that?”

“Good,” Dean gasps in haste. Beneath his jacket, he grabs Castiel’s knees where they bracket his body, digging his fingers into his jeans. It’s too good, and not enough simultaneously; his hips twitch in an effort to get Castiel closer, to make him move faster. “Too good— _Cas_ , shit—”

“You’re safe,” Castiel rasps. His grip quickens, and all Dean can think to do is hold on and ride whatever Castiel gives him. At some point, the jacket comes free, and Dean has half a second to look down at himself—at his purpled cock and flushed-red chest, the sweat beading down his stomach—before he comes with near-violent intensity, breath stolen with his orgasm. Castiel’s hand chases his balls as they rise, massaging out the last of his come.

And despite Dean’s sensitivity, Castiel keeps going, wresting pained gasps from him until he forces Castiel’s hand away. Not violent, though; just simply too much. Dean’s cock twitches against his belly until it begins to soften, and Castiel captures Dean’s lips in a kiss too passionate to be real, all tongue and heat and no finesse.

“Guess that’s payback,” Dean says, then bursts into laughter. Castiel joins in and hides a kiss behind his ear. “Shit, now we gotta drive back in this mess.”

“We’ll be fine,” Castiel chuckles. Softly, he runs his come-soaked hand up the expanse of Dean’s chest. “Or we could stay here for a bit longer. Take in the view.”

Dean swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against Castiel’s palm. “Sounds like a plan,” he says, cheeks flushing again. A nap would be great; round two later, even better.

-+-

_Montana_

“I’m thinking we should start winding down,” Castiel mentions to Dean over breakfast, and Dean’s stomach bottoms out.

Not that he didn’t see this coming. Quite the opposite, actually. If he were honest with himself, he’s been wondering when Castiel would call it quits for the last week or so, just based on how exhausted he must be. More than a month on a road would wear anyone out, and the way Dean has been putting miles on the Impala, they’re both worn to their limits.

It’s not like everything has been a disaster. In fact, these last few weeks have been some of the best of Dean’s life, even with the persistent ache in his back from horrible motel beds and the greasy lump in his stomach from living off fast food.

Halfheartedly stabbing at the remnants of his eggs, Dean props his cheek up on his fist, eyes to his plate. “Gotta be more specific,” he sighs, setting down his fork. “With the trip, or with…”

“Not us,” Castiel amends. Absently, he chews on his straw, fingernail tracing lines in the vinyl tabletop. He really has gotten tanner, Dean thinks; it looks good on Castiel, his eyes practically glowing in the sunlight. Warmer, somehow, and more approachable. If they weren’t in public, Dean would kiss him right there. “It’s just… We're both tired, Dean. Not that the time we’ve spent together hasn’t been immensely enjoyable, but… I’m ready to see Lawrence again.”

“God, same,” Dean laughs, palming his eyes. “Good thing to know it ain’t just me.”

Castiel chuckles, almost drowned out by the sound of clinking cutlery and idle chatter in the booths adjacent to them. One thing Dean won’t be looking forward to once they get home are the seedy roadside diners and all the sights and smells that accompany them. “You’re more than welcome to continue living with me, if you want. My lease is up in September, and I was thinking of getting a bigger apartment anyway—”

“Cas, Cas,” Dean laughs. Shaking his head, he blinks up at the overhead light. “You know I’m gonna say yes, right? You don’t even gotta ask.”

Softly—almost painfully soft—Castiel smiles, the tips of his ears reddening. “I didn’t know if… I’m not used to long term relationships. If what we have is a relationship.” He stops, eyes narrowing. “Is it?”

And really, is it? For the last few weeks, Dean has mulled that question over until the words no longer made sense. Certainly, Dean hasn’t been interested in anyone they’ve passed, in bars or at truck stops or otherwise, and from what Dean could tell, neither has Castiel. And sure, many nights, post-make outs or hand jobs or whatever else they got up to—never penetrative, never exactly how Dean likes it—they’ve discussed what it might mean, if they were to actively start calling each other boyfriend. But Castiel is a professor, and Dean is just trying to graduate with his sanity intact. It wouldn’t work. It shouldn’t work.

But it does. So well, that it scares Dean sometimes. Love is complicated, he decides, head in his hands. Love makes his heart hurt and his eyes burn, and he wants every minute of it. “I’ve only ever dated one guy,” Dean confesses, face hidden in his palms. Castiel makes a noise, but Dean ignores him and continues with, “Sure, I’ve gone _on_ dates since, and I’ve hooked up with guys on campus, but I’ve never… I have no baseline, I guess. Are we dating?”

Uncovering his face, Dean watches Castiel nod. “I’d like to think so,” Castiel says, “Unless you’d say we aren’t?”

Dean shrugs. “I mean, not in a conventional sense, I guess? Sure, we go to diners a lot, and we’ve been to the movies a few times, and…” He pauses, then laughs, lowering his head to the tabletop. “Wow, maybe we really are.”

Castiel toes the back of Dean’s foot, the tamest game of footsie Dean has ever been on the receiving end of. “It’s entirely up to you. I wouldn’t mind a roommate after everything is said and done, but if you wanted to move back to the dorms…” A sigh. “I’d miss you. Too much, I’m afraid.”

“Me too,” Dean eventually admits. Running a hand through his hair, he meets Castiel’s gaze, blue eyes fraught with insecurities Dean can’t even begin to understand. Almost instinctively, he reaches across the table to take Castiel’s hand, witnesses be damned. “Can I just… I need a week, maybe? Once we get back, I just… I gotta come down off this high.” He stops; thankfully, Castiel doesn’t interrupt. “We jumped into this too fast, and I wanna make sure I’m not gonna regret this. I don’t want this to be a fling, Cas—”

“I know,” Castiel says in haste. “I know, and I don’t want you to walk into something you don’t want.” The unspoken _in case you don’t want me_ hangs thick in the air, enough to make Dean’s heart stutter. “We can wrap up at any time you want, and we can head home, and I’ll work on compiling and editing the shots we’ve taken. You can take all the time you need, but I’ll be here.”

Castiel’s hand shakes in Dean’s own. In that moment, Dean knows he really loves him, that he doesn’t want to leave—but he still wants to make sure. Relationships are a commitment, one Dean has never had to make before. But by god, he’s not going to lose the one good thing he’s found in life because he rushed into it without thinking.

“That sounds good,” Dean says, eventually, releasing Castiel’s hand. “How does another week sound, then?”

Castiel offers him a smile, his eyes wrinkling at the edges. “That sounds great, Dean.” Another thought springs to mind before Dean can speak, Castiel adding, “There’s one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, though, if you’re willing.”

Dean blinks, heart hammering in his chest. “What is it?”

“How would you feel if I took your car for a spin?”

-+-

This is a bad idea.

This is a no good, terrible, horrible idea—and Dean is hard just thinking about it. Under the cover of night a few dozen miles outside of Missoula, Montana, Castiel slips behind the wheel of the Impala along the side of I-90, with Dean in the passenger seat gripping his seatbelt for dear life. Here, the speed limit is eighty, and even on the most barren stretches of road across the country, Dean has never made it above seventy-five, purely for practicality. It’s an old car, and she deserves to be treated with care and respect.

None of which Castiel has at this moment, as he turns over the engine and pulls onto the barren interstate. Moonlight serves as their guide, not a streetlight in sight. And in that moonlight, Dean can see the grin on Castiel’s face and the mirth in his eyes, shadows casting him in a maniacal light. “I haven’t done this in a few years,” Castiel says, glancing over to Dean. “And never in a car without a roll cage.”

“That’s reassuring,” Dean squeaks. Seat belt—he needs another seat belt, and now. “Just don’t kill us, alright?”

“I’m a professional,” Castiel laughs, none too reassuringly. Dean just swallows and holds on tight.

Castiel pushes the accelerator to the floor, and before Dean can even think to hold on, he feels the car lurch and shove forward, the endless night around him speeding up into a blur as the speedometer climbs. Thirty, forty, fifty—he loses track around eighty, and at ninety, Castiel begins to laugh, that once calming voice now only serving to shove Dean’s heart into his throat. In the daytime, it might be less terrifying; now, Dean screams and clutches the armrest, and the speedometer climbs past one hundred, only to slowly decline when Castiel begins to brake.

Yet, the speed spikes his adrenaline, heart in his throat and a familiar heat spreading through his body, all the way to his toes. Even as Dean holds on, terrified, he reaches out and grabs Castiel’s bicep, reveling in the strength of him, grounding him to the moment. To the roar of the engine and the passing scenery beyond the headlights, to Castiel’s voice, his rock, his refuge—his love.

It’s over before Dean fully realizes it, his back no longer pinned to the leather and his mouth still hanging open. Embarrassingly enough, he’s hard, purely from adrenaline and endorphins. And, maybe because Castiel looks hot as hell behind the wheel of his car. Dean waits for Castiel to park on the shoulder before he unbuckles and throws himself in Castiel’s lap, drawing him into the filthiest kiss he can give.

“Fuck me, c’mon. In the backseat,” Dean begs. Losing patience, he shoves Castiel backwards and grinds as close as he can.

Maneuvering turns out to be Dean’s worst enemy. As massive as the Impala is, getting around takes more effort than Dean’s lust-addled brain can take, and Castiel has to bodily drag him over the lip of the front bench. Dean makes it there, though, clumsily straddling Castiel’s lap, all while attempting to keep their mouths close and hands even closer. Castiel strips Dean out of his shirt with little finesse and scratches his fingers down his spine; Dean can’t help but throw his head back, nearly clocking himself on the cloth roof.

Lips latch onto his neck; nails rake across heated skin—all Dean can do is moan and tug Castiel’s hair by the root, curses on his tongue. “Baby,” Dean pants, meeting Castiel’s lips again, drinking in every noise he can and every haggard breath. “Baby, c’mon, I want—”

“I know,” Castiel gasps, going straight for Dean’s zipper.

How they get naked, Dean has no clue, beyond the kissing and elbows colliding with every surface imaginable. At some point, Castiel takes a knee to the gut, and Dean nurses a bruise to his thigh, but they make it work. They end up with Castiel sitting at the edge of the bench with Dean over his waist, held up by only his bent knees and a prayer. To Dean’s embarrassment, Castiel finds the lube stashed underneath the front seat and wastes no time getting to work, slicking two fingers and massaging over where Dean is most vulnerable, just feeling him out, easing his way in.

The second Dean feels Castiel plunge two fingers inside, he almost— _almost_ —loses it. By some miracle, he holds himself together, both arms stretched out over the front bench and hands gripping the leather. Idly, the thought crosses his mind that this is the first time they’ve been naked together—completely naked, not hidden by clothing or blankets or towels. The thought leaves Dean flushed in the moonlight, hips twitching when Castiel pushes another finger in, just as slick and imploring as the others.

“Dean,” Castiel mutters, just as breathless, tugging Dean against his chest. That’s how Castiel first breaches him, the head of his cock pushing into Dean with little resistance. Dean moans until Castiel bottoms out, fisting his hair all the while. “Dean, _Dean_ —”

“Shit, move, _please_ ,” Dean begs, burying his face in Castiel’s neck.

In the handful of instances Dean has ever had sex with strangers, he’s never done it bare, but now, he can feel every inch of Castiel’s cock pounding into him. Castiel palms his ass and spreads him open, fingers teasing the skin where they’re joined. Castiel really is huge; Dean can even tell while lost to the rhythm they’ve build, based on touch alone. Leaning back, Dean grabs ahold of the bench again and strokes himself while Castiel thrusts up, Dean meeting his rhythm as quickly as he can, chasing his release.

“Beautiful,” Castiel groans. Dean spasms at the sound of it, cutting off his release with a hand to the base of his cock. Praise has always gotten to him, no matter how hard he’s always tried to deny it, and to hear those words coming from Castiel nearly does him in. The hand that isn’t branded to Dean’s hip comes to rest on his shoulder, giving Castiel additional leverage and keeping them bound, lost in each other. “ _Perfect_ , Dean—”

“Fuck,” Dean wheezes, falling forward.

Castiel catches him, both arms around his shoulders, and Dean rides him like that, pressed together, sweating chests sliding against one another. After that, it doesn't take long to come, Castiel’s fist around Dean’s cock tipping him over the edge. His release spills over Castiel’s fingers while Dean pants into the juncture of Castiel’s throat, mouthing adoration into his skin as he comes down. Castiel pulls out and uses the last of Dean’s come to jerk himself off, coming wet across Dean’s ass and no doubt into the footwell, based on the awkward angle they’ve somehow managed to perfect.

In the afterglow, Dean swallows and struggles to catch his breath. Castiel fares the same, panting wordless breaths into Dean’s matted hair. “I think I love you,” Dean blurts, only ashamed of himself after he admits it. Castiel kisses him anyway, tongue slow in his mouth and a smile on his lips.

“I love you too,” Castiel grins into the following kiss, just as passionate as the first time. Dean’s heart swells, and in the dark, he hides his tears in Castiel’s neck while Castiel strokes his back, drawing him back into his skin, making him whole.

One day, Dean hopes he can give Castiel back every ounce of affection he’s been afforded—and then some.


	6. Chapter 6

Their trip ends in a small Nebraskan town Castiel can’t even bother to remember the name of. That night, he can’t sleep. Not while knowing that after tomorrow, he won’t see Dean for a week at least; no longer will he fall asleep to the sound of Dean’s soft snores, or hold Dean tight when he needs to. No, tomorrow, Castiel will be alone, left to his own devices for the first time in almost three months. He can’t stand it, even with Dean beside him—just as awake, based on how he can’t stop shuffling.

“This bed sucks,” Dean mumbles, forlorn. Castiel just pulls him closer, pressing kisses to Dean’s nape. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever slept on a mattress this hard.”

“There’ve been worse,” Castiel chuckles.

Slowly, he massages the skin above Dean’s waistband, brushing his nails through the sparse hair there, just to feel Dean twitch and sigh. A thought enters his mind belatedly, a withheld fantasy Castiel hasn’t ever had the chance to entertain given the circumstances and just how tired they’ve both been every night, from countless hours on the road. But today, they barely drove, opting to take the scenic routes. Leisurely, with nothing but smiles and joined hands along the way.

Now, Castiel’s mind ventures to decidedly more untamed thoughts, and just barely, he inches his hand lower, teasing the waistband of Dean’s briefs. “I have one more thing I want to photograph,” Castiel mentions, close to Dean’s ear.

“What’s that?” Dean slurs, leaning his head back just enough for Castiel to mouth along the column of his throat.

Castiel hums, hiding a smile. “Jerk off for me?” he asks, and Dean moans in reply, loud in the silence of their shared room. “Can you do that?”

“Sure that’s necessary?” Dean smirks, but ultimately rolls onto his back, allowing Castiel to straddle his waist after he shoves his underwear down his legs. “That gonna be in the portfolio?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Castiel amends. He reaches for his camera bag on the floor, fumbling for his Nikon before dragging himself fully back onto the mattress. Still, Dean looks up at him with all surety in his eyes, smirking with those lips Castiel adores. “It could just be between us.”

“Kinky,” Dean laughs. That doesn’t stop him from palming his soft cock though, and Castiel watches him harden incrementally through the lens of his camera. He doesn’t photograph Dean so much as admire him, the way his lips part and his chest flushes in the neon glow of the motel’s sign outside. Dean’s hips begin to twitch with every upward stroke—over the head of his cock where it leaks profusely, then down, slicking himself with his own fluids. “Like it when you watch me,” Dean pants. One handed, he reaches out to grab Castiel’s knee, and Castiel covers his hand with his own, threading their fingers together. “You should—you gotta touch me, Cas.”

“You’re doing fine,” Castiel praises, squeezing their joined hands together.

Throwing his head back, Dean moans freely into the air, another spurt of precome spilling through his fingers and dripping onto his stomach; with all of his resolve, Castiel stops himself from licking it away, from abandoning his mission to suck Dean down his throat himself. Dean is hard now, and Castiel isn’t far off, either; he manages to hold off on touching himself, though, watching Dean through the viewfinder again. This time, he focuses on his chest, moving the lens all the way up to Dean’s open mouth, lips bitten red.

“’M close,” Dean mumbles, beginning to tremble. That only makes Castiel want him more, even after Dean attempts to palm him through his underwear, where he’s already straining the fabric. Not tonight. Tonight is for Dean, his parting gift to him. If only Castiel felt worthy of Dean’s adoration.

Dean’s orgasm, no matter how many times Castiel watches, is beautiful—the way his eyelids pinch shut and his lips part, back bowing in a sinuous bow. Castiel captures it all behind the lens, basking in Dean’s stuttered moan and his eventual flattening into the mattress, chest heaving, sweat beading off his temple and into his hair. Castiel feels winded just looking at him, at the come soaking his fingers and splattered across his chest, at the way Dean sucks in air like his life depends on it.

And as always, his kisses taste even sweeter in the afterglow, something Castiel will always cherish. “Gorgeous,” he says, lowering himself onto the mattress at Dean’s side. “My love, Dean.”

“Big sap,” Dean laughs. Taking the camera from Castiel, he tosses it to the foot of the mattress and pulls Castiel close; Castiel goes willingly, reveling in Dean’s touch. Come-soaked fingers stroke over Castiel’s reddened cheeks, and he only has a second to be disgusted before Dean kisses him, always gentle but never shy. “I’m gonna come back to you next week, you know that, right?”

Castiel nods, as much as he can. “Can you promise me?” he asks, childish as it sounds. Dean nods, the green in his eyes intoxicating. “I just… After everything, I don’t want to lose you.”

“I’ll be here,” Dean affirms, dragging Castiel into another kiss. “You’re… everything to me, man. Like hell am I gonna lose you.”

Castiel chuckles, hiding his face under Dean’s chin. “I hope so,” he says as he fights off sleep. “I hope so, Dean.”

 

-+-

 

“I’m a fan of your nightgown,” Castiel mentions over the phone, feet propped up on the coffee table with his laptop in his lap. On the other end, Dean laughs, full of the mirth Castiel has been missing for the past two weeks. Texts don’t really do their communication justice; Castiel needs to hear him while they’re not together. “Do you remember that motel?”

“The shithole in El Paso?” Dean quips. “How could I forget? A roach fell on my head in the middle of the night.”

How could Castiel forget _that_ , out of every other moment that night. “I still have the bruise on my hip from where you kicked me.”

“I didn’t know my leg could get that high,” Dean snickers. “You still got the lipstick stains?”

This time, Castiel laughs into his coffee mug, almost snorting it up his nose. “You ruined my only pair of khakis.”

Dean snorts. “You told me you never wore them anyway, why not break ‘em in a little?”

“You ruin me, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says through an exhale. “In every way.”

“I know,” Dean answers. “Now, tell me which ones you’re gonna put in there?”

Right, the book—the entire reason Castiel called Dean in the first place. At least, that was his excuse to call. Really, all Castiel could find it in himself to do was wake up and edit, just to do something productive that wasn’t sleeping for hours on end, staving off the loneliness lingering around corners. Looking at Dean helped, but not enough. As long as Dean kept his distance, supposedly fighting with the university office so he could sign up for the one class he needed for graduation, nothing would be enough. Why Dean was still staying at the dorms, Castiel had no clue. He could be here—they could be together.

Maybe that was the problem, though. Castiel always thrived on proximity, but Dean somehow always kept his distance, even when they were together. Not physically, but mentally, possibly from a lifetime of trauma and feeling unwanted. Castiel could empathize. His sisters did always call him clingy, but Castiel never really understood until now, with Dean on the phone and a folder filled with thousands of pictures open on his laptop, all of one person.

They never did take a photo together.

“I miss you,” Castiel sighs, abandoning Dean’s question for his own sorrow. Dean makes a noise on the other end, but doesn’t respond. “Is that wrong?”

“It’s not,” Dean answers, softer than before. “I don’t know what’s keeping me from running over there right now, but… I figure, we both need space, right?”

 _But I don’t_ , Castiel thinks. “I’d rather have you here,” Castiel says instead, palming his eyes. He really needs to sleep, not these on-and-off naps he’s been taking just to stave off the ache in his eyes. “I can’t stand the thought of… being alone anymore. Not when I’ve gotten so used to having you here. Maybe it’s selfish—”

“It’s not,” Dean repeats, more adamant now. “Cas, I can’t… I don’t wanna lose you, okay? I don’t… I’m scared.” He lets out a sigh, brittle; Castiel wishes, with all his might, that he could be there to console him. “I don’t wanna fuck it up, and I thought staying away would help, but it’s only made me want you more, and I just… What if this isn’t right? What if we’re making a mistake?”

“Then we’ll deal with it,” Castiel says, turning to the screen door and the city beyond his porch, the early summer breeze blowing through. “Nothing has to be perfect from the start. If it’s not meant to be, then we’ll figure it out. But until then, just come home.” Castiel swallows, closing his eyes to the sadness welling there. Head thrown back, he continues, “Come home, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t answer. The line goes dead shortly after that, and Castiel finds himself alone once again, the screen on his laptop dimmed and his coffee gone cold. Tomorrow, then—tomorrow, he’ll call, and they’ll talk about this again. Maybe then, Castiel won’t feel like his heart has been abandoned.

-+-

Dean returns in the middle of the night. Much to Castiel’s horror, he’s soaked from a rainstorm and bleeding from the temple. “I swear, I didn’t fight anyone,” Dean laughs, his attempt at lightening the situation falling on deaf ears. All Castiel can see is Dean bleeding, and nothing else. Still lethargic from sleep, Castiel reaches up to thumb away at the wetness marring Dean’s forehead, smearing the mess into his hair, where Castiel cups his face and draws Dean in.

And Dean goes willingly, pressing the cleanest portion of his head to Castiel’s chest, wet arms snaking around his waist and clinging tight. “Please tell me you didn’t hurt yourself,” Castiel rumbles, feeling Dean shake his head. _Good_. “Why did you come?”

Pulling away, Dean steps back to shut the door, flipping the lock. In haste, Castiel leads him to the couch and sits him down with little forethought. It’s only after that he remembers to go to the bathroom to grab bandages and ointment—and a towel. “I suck at lying,” Dean sighs when Castiel returns, head bowed.

Castiel huffs, tilting Dean’s chin up to look at him; he blots the cut, only about an inch long and not very deep, with a wet washrag, holding it there. “I figured. I was beginning to believe that you didn’t want to see me anymore.”

“Now, that ain’t the truth and you know that.” Dean offers him a smile, somewhat pained around the edges, but it’s a true smile nonetheless. “I suck at this commitment thing. I told you, I… I just got scared, and I figured if I could stay away, then I wouldn’t hurt you. I think it backfired though.”

 _You think_? Castiel rests his free hand atop Dean’s jean-clad knee, watching as Dean covers it with his own, dovetailing their fingers together. “I understand if you don’t want to see me every day,” Castiel begins, letting his hand drop. He rests his head in the curve of Dean’s shoulder, listening to his subtle exhales. “But maybe once a week, if you…”

“Cas,” Dean shushes him. Gently, he presses a kiss to Castiel’s hair, and Castiel flushes with shame. “I’m done hiding. I’m done… overthinking this, okay? I just wanna be here, I wanna… I don’t care if any other professor finds out, I just want you.”

Slowly, Castiel nods, his shoulders slumping significantly in Dean’s renewed embrace. “That’s all I’ve wanted,” he whispers, leaning up to kiss Dean’s cheek. Lingering, he waits for Dean’s acceptance before drawing him into a real kiss, hands to Dean’s nape and Dean clinging to him just as heatedly, fingers tangling in Castiel’s hair. Still soaked to the bone, Dean is impossibly warm, even more so when Castiel shoves him fully onto the couch, framing Dean with his body and never once letting go.

“I wanna stay,” Dean pants, grappling with Castiel’s sleep shirt and pulling it over his shoulders. Clipped nails scrape down Castiel’s spine, and Castiel groans, muffling his pleasure in another kiss to Dean’s neck. “Please, I wanna—”

“As long as you want,” Castiel answers, heart full. “As long as you’ll have me, I’m yours.”

 

-+-

 

Castiel finishes the portfolio fully the day before Dean begins his final semester in the fall, and the second day in their new apartment across town. It may be further from campus, but it’s still within driving distance, with two bedrooms and one bathroom—and one bed.

“I figured you’d want to be the first person to see this,” Castiel says over breakfast that morning, shoving an inch-thick hardback book across the table. Dean runs his fingers across the black cover, the words _Sancta Maria_ etched into the surface, then lifts his eyes to Castiel. “It’s a personal copy from my editor, I haven’t sent it to the printers yet.”

“Wait, this is it?” Dean drops his fork and pulls the book over with both hands. He grins, all teeth. “You haven’t even shown me the prints, and you did all this?”

“While you were sleeping,” Castiel chuckles, leaning his elbows on the table. “Go ahead, look.”

“God, I swear, if you put the ones in here of me in those church robes,” Dean wheezes through a laugh.

Castiel watches nimble fingers file through the numerous pages, all filled with photos of Dean. In one, Dean’s dressed in nothing but stockings; in another, he wears a button-down and holds a cigarette between his lips. Some pictures focus on parts of Dean’s body, some are portraits, and others are full body shots, but they all have their own unique appeal. Dean pauses over a few where his scars are most prominent, chewing his lip between his teeth as he looks, almost with admiration.

“This can’t be me,” he says as one point, stuck on a photo of his feet, clad in black stockings and bound by weather-worn rope. One of their more intensive sets, but one of Castiel’s favorites. “I mean, I know they’re me, but… I’ve seen pictures of me, Cas, and this—”

“It’s all you.” Smiling, Castiel reaches across the kitchen island to cover Dean’s hand. “You’re a work of art, Dean. No matter how many scars you have, you’ll always be beautiful.”

Never once has Castiel seen Dean cry, not really. A few times, he’s seen Dean misty-eyed, but never tearful. Now, though, Dean fists his eyes dry, still aimlessly flipping through the pages and the words written on them, all featuring bits of prose Castiel labored over for hours, just to set the scene. Whether or not Dean has actually read them, Castiel doesn’t know, but he rounds the island regardless and wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, chin propped up on his shoulder. “It's alright,” he soothes, smoothing his hand over Dean’s stomach.

“I’m just not used to it, I guess,” Dean sighs, wiping his face. Castiel hugs him tighter, until Dean’s tremors settle and he breathes easier. “Still don’t believe it.”

“You don’t have to,” Castiel tells him. Kissing a spot on Dean’s throat, he continues, “I just wanted you to see. I fell in love with your body first, yes, but it’s your soul that speaks to me the loudest. Nothing could ever change that.”

Dean huffs, still a bit watery; Castiel feels him smile nonetheless, even as he palms his face. “You’re too sweet on me, you know that? Calling me… stuff like that.”

“Because it’s the truth.” Briefly, Castiel kisses Dean’s hair before letting him go, trailing his fingers across his skin along the way. Dean turns to him as he steps back, bare chest flushed red down to his nipples, and Castiel can’t help himself—he crosses the floor and kisses him again, Dean smiling against his lips before breaking into a laugh.

“God, you really are too good for me,” Dean says with a smirk, and in all honesty, Castiel couldn’t love him any more if he tried. “What’d you write in there, anyway? You waxing poetic about me?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers in all sincerity. Reaching for the book, he takes both it and Dean in hand, leading him to the couch and basking in the warmth of his body, the joy in his soul. “I’ll show you.”

 

-+-

 

 

“Hey,” Dean purrs in bed that night, the digital block over Castiel’s shoulder reading two in the morning. Beside him, Castiel snuffles awake, burrowing his head under Dean’s chin. “Hey, Cas, wake up, c’mon. I gotta ask you something.”

“Can it wait?” Castiel asks, slurred in his sleep-deprived state. “I have to wake up at five.”

Dean hums, tucking a knee between Castiel’s legs. “I just thought of something, you know what we’ve never done?”

“A lot of things,” Castiel murmurs. “Like sleep.”

“Hush,” Dean laughs. “We never took a picture together. Think you can open your eyes long enough?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Too comfortable. Maybe in the morning.”

“You’re no fun,” Dean huffs.

That doesn’t stop him from reaching for his phone, though, holding the device over his and Castiel’s heads, the front camera facing Dean’s half-lidded stare and Castiel’s nose pressed into his neck, eyes closed and breathing softly. His breath catches at the sight, heart skipping. _This really is love_ , he thinks, turning his head enough to press a kiss to Castiel’s forehead. Again, Castiel exhales, but Dean feels him smile, feels the arm wrapping around his waist to tug him closer.

“Go to sleep,” Dean soothes. Before he nods off himself, he snaps a quick photo, uncaring of how dark the resolution is. They’ll have time in the morning, after all. All the time they’ll ever need.

**Author's Note:**

> WAHOO IT'S DONE! I hope everyone enjoys this! I had such a fun time writing this as compared to the three previous years which were super angsty. I wanna thank [Bexy](http://hufflepuffdean.tumblr.com/) as usual for the spectacular betaing, and [Subtextiel](https://feathergrave.tumblr.com/post/178646761135/heart-like-a-wheel-im-so-glad-i-had-the) for doing such WONDERFUL art! I'm so happy with this ;A;. Congrats to another DCBB in the bag!
> 
> Title is from the Eric Church song of the same name! (His new album is SO good y'all)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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